


Vanished

by DevilRising



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Sex, Auror Harry Potter, Bisexual Harry Potter, Bottom Draco Malfoy, Early Bird 25 Days of Harry and Draco 2020, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Fluff, Forced Proximity, Gay Draco Malfoy, Getting Together, M/M, Oral Sex, POV Alternating, Resolved Sexual Tension, Rimming, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Top Harry Potter, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Unspeakable Draco Malfoy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:55:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 134,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27812644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DevilRising/pseuds/DevilRising
Summary: Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter expect to spend their Decembers the same as any other: working. When Draco is called in on his day off though, and finds Harry waiting for him, everything changes.A story about cottages and forests, abandoned villages, and Vanishing Cabinets.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 262
Kudos: 340
Collections: 25 Days of Draco and Harry 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I would like to start by saying how much I have enjoyed writing this fic and being a part of the fest this year. It has been a struggle to restrain myself from talking about this, and I’m so glad I can now! 
> 
> This fic is very self-indulgent. It uses a lot of my favourite tropes and just little details I enjoy. There is quite a bit of plot, but it’s also probably half fluff and Christmas nonsense, so I hope you like it!
> 
> I’m not going to lie, it is still a WIP. I have the first 15 chapters completed and ready to go though, and I have every intention of finishing it in time for Christmas!! I’d like to thank diamondpride and bellasprezzaturaa for all their time spent helping me with this giant of a fic! I don’t know where I’d be without them!
> 
> That said, I hope you all enjoy this roller coaster of a fic!

**  
  
**[A mansion viewed between snowy tree branches]

**December 1st, 2003 - Monday**

Draco’s hand goes flying from where it was just resting under his pillow, hitting his wand, randomly hoping to shut off the alarm. He grumbles curses under his breath as he rolls over onto his back. His eyes blink a couple of times as they open, adjusting to the light. Or rather, the lack of light. He immediately sits up, exhaustion forgotten as adrenaline rushes through his veins. If he’s being woken up at this ungodly hour, it can’t be good. Actually, it’s guaranteed to be an emergency. With no time to shower or eat, Draco leaps out of bed and digs around for his work robes. Monday is usually his day off, and while he _does_ do any leftover paperwork, he does it in his little flat in Muggle London instead of in the office. 

He scowls all through getting dressed, pulling on his robes over his pants and cursing the number of fastenings in the fabric. Draco reaches for his wand while trying to button up the many side fastenings—the robes also happen to be old-fashioned, utter monstrosities—and performs his perfunctory hair charms. He feels it settle into place on his head and smiles, not once stopping in his dressing. What feels like an eternity later, Draco peers into his floor-length mirror. It’s not great, there are evident wrinkles and the collar is very flat against his shoulders, but all of the fastenings are done up correctly. It’s not like anyone will pay attention to the fact that he still looks half-asleep anyway. Most Unspeakables look like zombies when they’re called in on a day off anyway, so it’s probably expected. 

Shaking his head and picking his wand up off the floor, he rushes out of his bedroom and into the living room. Reaching into the pot holding the Floo Powder, he feels his fingers scrape the clay base; he makes a mental note to pick up some more this afternoon. He calls out the secret Floo address for the Department of Mysteries. The flames turn green and he steps in, before being _whooshed_ through the tunnels. After rocketing through the correct grate, he aims to step out gracefully into the landing area. Instead, he finds himself sprawled on the cold floor. Thankful that no one was there to witness it at this hour, he stands up and shakes himself off. Floo Powder flies from his robes, and to his dismay, his hair is full of it. He decides to cast a very quick Tempus to see if he has time to fix it. He doesn’t; he’s supposed to already be there. 

Draco rushes through the corridors, twisting and turning and moving his gaze away from anyone else he happens to pass. The dark walls glow and he shakes his head, willing his vision to accustom to the light. By the time he gets into the correct room—and honestly, why wasn’t he told which room to go to—he’s out of breath and slightly flushed. 

“Unspeakable Malfoy, you’re late,” Draco’s boss scolds. She is a sharp woman, always expecting the absolute best; anything less than that is worse than bad—it’s inadequate. She reminds Draco almost of McGonagall. If McGonagall was interested in dark curses rather than Transfiguring rats into goblets, that is. 

“My apologies, Miss Stinton,” Draco replies. There’s no use giving a reason— not that he has one anyway—because she’ll take it as an excuse regardless. Excuses are not looked upon well. 

She waves a dismissive hand, pleased with his apology. “Very well Malfoy, right this way.” Her eyes linger on Draco’s hair, undoubtedly looking at the green powder that still lingers in his hair. She doesn’t comment. Turning abruptly, her black and silver robes flying around her ankles, she sets a brisk pace down another corridor and into a different room. 

This room is unusual, to say the least. Most of the rooms in the department have black-glass bricks, with fake windows and zero decoration. They have only what is absolutely necessary, as anything else runs the risk of ‘getting in the way’ and is therefore meaningless. This one, though, couldn’t be more different. Instead of the standard glass walls, it has wooden panelling running horizontally along the walls. They are pale and quite pretty, as far as average wood goes, and bring a feeling of life to the room. The floors are a plush silver carpet, Draco’s feet sinking into it slightly with every step. The walls are lined with huge windows, and even though they have to be fake—they _are_ underground after all—they look very beautiful. To top it all off, there is an actual chandelier hanging overhead. It sends light to every corner of the room, nothing left untouched. It must be enchanted. 

“Malfoy.” Robards nods his greeting to Draco once he manages to direct his attention to what is in the room, and away from the decor. The movement wobbles Robard’s beanie, and he hurriedly pulls it back onto his head. It’s a beautiful deep blue, and perfectly acceptable given the 8 degree morning. The poor man must be freezing. 

Miss Stinton walks back out into the corridor, and Draco’s eyes sweep over the room again. They immediately catch on someone he’d rather hoped he wouldn’t see this morning. His blood runs hot at the sight of a mop of black curls sitting atop a very familiar, tanned face. Emerald eyes stare back at him, a hint of mockery in them. 

“Potter,” Draco bites out. Despite having worked with the man for three years on and off, he never gets used to seeing him. The fact that he’s also been pulled over here so early means that something must be _very_ wrong. Potter very rarely suffers like the rest of the workers, so Robards must have deemed it extra important. 

“Malfoy.” Potter flashes a smirk at Draco, who forces himself to calm down and think rationally. There’s no use being angry at the idiot when there’s a job to do. He nods curtly back to Potter and turns to face Robards again. 

“Sir,” he prompts. 

Robards startles out of his thoughts—a habit he’s picked up recently—and rushes over himself to explain the situation. 

Apparently, Potter found an item of great interest, practically spilling over with dark magic. Said _item_ is currently sitting under a purple sheet, and looks about the same size as Draco. It’s rather box-y, and he has no idea what it could be. Robards explains that when someone touched it, they lost all of the hair on their head. Draco holds back a chuckle with a lot of effort, a picture in his mind of some poor person brushing up against it and having their hair basically malt. 

“So, what is it?” He manages to ask with a straight face. 

Robards rubs the back of his neck and gestures for Potter to pull the sheet off. 

A Vanishing Cabinet. Of fucking course it is. Merlin clearly has a sick sense of humour, to be punishing him for what happened in Sixth Year all these bloody years later! Draco sighs, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. Taking a breath, he nods. The hair vanishing thing makes more sense now. It’s still weird, but not quite _as_ weird. 

“So, it’s only been altered?” He asks the room. No one responds. “Have any tests been conducted yet?” 

When no one responds yet again, he leaves the subject and starts pulling things out of his extended pockets. Thick, plastic gloves fall to the carpet, followed by a face mask and a pair of safety glasses. Draco hurries to put all of them on and then draws a circle around the cabinet with his wand. When a red line glares up from the ground, he ushers Robards and Potter away. They can not be in the circle if the spells are going to have any chance of working. 

He aims spell after spell at it, but they all come back negative. It is obvious that nothing has been changed on the cabinet itself, so it must be the actual magic that is different and not the wood. Hmm. That takes quite a bit of skill. The more diagnostic spells return and say that nothing’s wrong, the more Draco starts thinking that it’s bullshit. The person who lost their hair must have been hexed or something at the same time. But… Potter found it. He probably saw the victim’s hair fall out. He has to ask. 

“No actually I didn’t,” Potter replies. “I thought that was quite odd, but someone else told me they’d witnessed it. I figured that since it was obviously coated in dark magic I’d bring it in anyway, and that if it really was responsible for removing hair and I’d just saved someone else’s head, it would be a bonus.” He shrugs at the end, like he didn’t honestly care that much about it. 

Draco groans inwardly. “Who was the witness?”

“Hmm? Oh, well I didn’t get a name exactly…” he trails off. 

“What do you _mean_ you didn’t get a name!” Draco snaps. “Merlin help me, we have no leads whatsoever.” He sighs. “It should be fine to touch though.”

“Should be?” Potter asks, eyebrows raised. “You could sound more sure about that, you know.”

“Well you’re not going to be the one touching it, you imbecile!” 

“Oh, right…”

“Boys, really?” Robards’ voice fills the room again. Draco had forgotten he was even there. “Can you not go ten minutes without sniping at each other?”

“Sorry, boss,” Potter instantly responds. 

“My apologies, Robards.” Proper apologies have been drilled into Draco for five years, there’s no way he’ll say anything less formal. 

A minute passes, and still none of his spells reveal anything unusual. He decides to test for dark magic in general, and is very confused when nothing shows. He can _feel_ it for Merlin’s sake! He doesn’t bother stifling his groan, and removes all of his safety equipment. 

“I’m going to touch it,” he announces. “Prepare for a response.” While he may be willing to be injured, he would prefer to do it knowing he would be healed swiftly. Robards utters a grunt in response, the lazy bastard. If it was Potter touching it, he’d probably have him do it in St. Mungo’s! But no, it’s Draco, so he doesn’t care if he’s going to be blown to bits. He takes a step forward, mentally going through everything he should look for. His hand reaches up for the silver handle of the cabinet, and he wraps his hand around it. It’s bitterly cold beneath his palm, the metal blistering his skin. He doesn’t have long to complain about it though, because before he knows it, he’s falling through the sky. 

*~*~*~

The atmosphere around him changes, the world becoming bright and colourful. Flashes of pink, blue, and yellow whirl past him. He’s reminded of sprinkles, or even gingerbread, before he thuds to the ground. It’s a soft thud, not followed by any screaming pain. That has to be a good thing, he thinks. Draco blinks his eyes open, and instantly wishes he never had. Snow, as far as the eye can see. But not just snow, no. The gods really _must_ hate him. He is in the middle of a very thick, very snowed-over, evergreen forest. He screams a string of curses, safe in the knowledge that no one could possibly hear him.

“Bloody hell that was loud.” 

Draco’s head snaps around. He feels like giving up and asking the gods to end it for him. They’d probably be delighted. “Potter. What are _you_ doing here?”

“I have no idea. I was hoping you could explain that actually.” His voice is pointed and sharp, a stark contrast to the sight of his messed up hair covered in snow. 

A thought suddenly comes to Draco, and he pats himself down. What if his wand isn’t here?! How is he going to get back without his wand?! He begins panicking. It isn’t in his pockets, or in the holster at his waist, or up his sleeves, or even in his boots. 

“Whatcha lookin’ for?” Potter asks from where he’s digging himself out of the snow. 

Draco swallows hard, now absolutely positive that his wand is missing. “My wand,” he grits out. The last thing he wants is for Potter to take advantage of the situation and slit his throat. Granted, he doesn’t seem too thirsty for Draco’s blood these days, so it might not be too bad. 

Harry chuckles as he gets to his feet, shaking the snow off his legs. “Here ya go.” 

Something comes flying towards Draco, and it’s only his reflexes—left over from playing Seeker for five years—that stops it hitting him in the face. It’s his wand. 

“Where did you get that from?!” He snaps. If Potter stole it from him!

“Calm your tits Malfoy, jeez,” Potter says. The expression is one Draco’s never heard before, so it’s probably Muggle. It’s weird, and makes no sense given the fact he’s _male._ There are most definitely no tits under his robes. “It was next to me in the snow, that’s all.” He raises his hands to show he’s unarmed. 

Draco narrows his eyes but accepts that the wand looks unharmed. Without saying anything to Potter, he grips it tight and thinks about the Ministry of Magic. He doesn’t want to spend a second longer than necessary in this creepy forest, and definitely not alone with Potter. His mind supplies an image of the room he was just in with the Vanishing Cabinet, and his eyes close. He concentrates, waits for the squeezing pull of Apparition. It never comes. Draco’s eyebrows scrunch down and he pivots to face Potter. 

“Why can’t I Apparate out of here?”

The Saviour of the Wizarding World seems to be at a loss for words, holding up his hands. “I haven’t done anything, if that’s what you think.”

Draco harrumphs at him. 

Potter pulls his own wand out, and Draco watches as he prepares to Apparate out as well. His face pales and he stares at Draco opposite him. 

“I can’t either.”

Draco groans. This day couldn’t get any worse, could it? “We have to figure something out,” he states. “We can’t stay here until the end of time. And I’m definitely not walking back to London.”

“Dramatic as always, Malfoy.” Draco can basically feel Potter’s eye roll. 

Draco screws his nose up and clips his wand into its holster on his waist. “I’m going to go find shelter somewhere,” he says, avoiding Potter’s gaze. 

“I’ll come with,” Potter agrees instantly.

Draco turns and hides his eye roll. He’d rather hoped he’d be able to ditch the other man, but it seems fate is against him. He sets off in a random direction, not really thinking about where he’s going. 

It’s interesting, he thinks. Of all the ways to be forcibly removed from work, he was _not_ expecting it to be this one. Who could possibly imagine that they’d be called in early, touch a cursed object—because clearly it _is_ cursed after all—and then be teleported to a forest? With the most annoying man on earth, just to make matters worse. And okay, maybe Potter’s better than he used to be when they were in school, but he’s still a far cry from good company. And yes, maybe he’s filled out and has lost his ‘half-starved for eleven years’ look, but he’s nowhere near as strong as the other Aurors. Draco thinks. He’s not entirely sure on that fact, because as it turns out, most of the work he does happens to be with Potter.

That doesn’t mean he has to _like_ the man though. He’s annoying, loud, messy, uncooperative, and above all _slow._ Everything has to be explained to him, because when it isn’t, there’s a risk of him blowing up a cursed side table that is crucial to the case, and getting some gross potion that refuses to wash out everywhere. Ok, Draco’s still bitter about that case, but two years have come and gone, and he still can’t wear his favourite jacket! 

He sighs, his hand moving up to shield his eyes from the sun. The sun? Draco looks up, amazed that he managed to get out of the forest so quickly, and his mouth curves into a grin. Right in front of him is a beautiful old cottage. It looks cozy and warm, and appears to be a perfect place to stay. It’s also covered in snow, making it look like it’s been pulled from a traditional fairytale. 

“Oh, wow,” Potter muses under his breath. Draco had forgotten about him, following as he was in absolute silence. “It’s gorgeous.” Draco can only nod numbly. 

Shaking himself out of a daze, he walks down the charming path and towards the front door. Potter trails after him, his footsteps off-beat and quite loud compared to Draco’s. He lifts his hand and raps on the door, three times, nice and neat. There’s no reply. No response from within the house at all. 

“Move aside,” Potter instructs. Draco does as he’s told without a second thought, and then instantly angers at that fact. Regardless, Potter’s raised his wand and is performing a series of detection spells. One of them chimes while a second puffs out a cloud of green steam. Steam, not smoke. There’s no smell to it and it vanishes very quickly, whereas coloured smoke always hangs around for a while. 

“There’s no one inside,” Potter declares. “I don’t think anyone’s ever used it.” He doesn’t wait for an answer, instead barging the door open with barely any effort. Draco hides how impressed he is, and adjusts Potter’s strength in his mind. Keeping mental tabs on everyone helps him in situations where he needs to have something over them, and if he can use Potter’s strength against him in a duel, he will. 

Potter enters the cottage, and Draco takes a step to follow him. Instead of walking into a living room, he walks straight into Potter’s back. 

“Ow, Potter!” He says, rubbing at his arm where it collided at an odd angle. 

Potter only then seems to realise that he’s been walked into. “Oh shit! Are you okay?”

Draco rolls his eyes and plasters a sneer onto his face. “Of course I am, Potty,” he sniffs. “I’ve known you since we were eleven. I am _well_ accustomed to your obliviousness.” Okay, maybe that was just a little bit harsh. But Potter isn’t the one to bruise at even the slightest touch. 

Potter lets out a harsh laugh but doesn’t say anything else. It makes Draco think back to their school days, where he would have gotten a good argument for saying as much. Now though, Potter merely steps aside and lets Draco into the house. 

Draco’s jaw drops. Directly in front of him _is_ the living room, and he’s slightly pleased with his accurate guess. Only slightly, because next is a small kitchen, with just enough room for two people to walk through. He scowls at the lackluster layout—and the lack of an actual dining room. The poor table has just been pushed against a wall to the right side of the kitchen. At least it’s decorated in nice colours and doesn’t make him want to blind himself. To his right he sees a corridor, leading presumably to a bathroom and some bedrooms. It’s only then that he notices his mouth is still hanging open. He forces it shut with an audible pop.

Potter has moved along from the doorway, and appears to be about to rummage through the kitchen. Draco is about to reprimand him for stealing somebody else’s food, before remembering that Potter couldn’t detect anyone having ever used the cottage. He frowns. That’s rather strange, isn’t it? But then Potter cries out in glee and there is a lot of rustling. Draco looks up to see him opening a bag of weird, circular things. When Potter puts it in his mouth there is a very loud crunch, and he all but _moans_ at the taste. Draco screws his face up.

“What in Merlin’s name is that?” He asks. 

Potter’s eyebrows nearly lift off his face. “You’ve never had crisps before?”

“Crisps?” Draco repeats. “No.”

Potter looks almost _horrified_ at that. Then realisation dawns on his face. “I assume they’re some sort of Muggle confection?” 

Draco sneers. A perfect reason to refuse any of them. Surely they can’t be that good anyway. Right? 

“Try one!” Potter offers him the bag. Draco is sorely tempted, but stubbornly shakes his head. “Oh come _on_ they won’t _kill_ you,” Potter tries. Only, Draco swears he hears him utter ‘not immediately, at least…’

“I’m good,” Draco says. “I don’t want to die from weird Muggle snacks. I’m going to go find my bedroom.” He ignores the tongue being stuck out at him. Merlin. Who knew Potter was so… so… Okay, Draco can’t find a word adequate enough, but _whatever-it-is-that-Potter-is_ is very annoying. 

Draco only now remembers one of the most basic things taught to Unspeakables. Just because apparition isn’t possible in one spot, doesn’t mean it isn’t in another. He pulls his wand out of its holster and prepares to Apparate away. Destination, Determination, Deliberation. The steps are easy to remember, and he grips his wand tightly. Not knowing how far he is from London, he could have to make multiple jumps. His eyes squeeze closed and he focuses. Right when there is supposed to be a loud crack and suffocating blackness, nothing happens. It’s absolute silence and he’s still very much in the cottage. From down the corridor he thinks he hears Potter laughing at his attempt. Draco sighs. He should have known there wouldn’t have been an easy way out, stupid cursed objects. 

He walks down the short hallway from the living room, and sure enough there is a door on the left. He pushes it open to reveal a blue and white bathroom. It’s very well decorated, especially in comparison to the kitchen. He spies a massive bath at the end of the room, and tells himself that he must have one. Baths are a luxury he doesn’t usually allow himself, but since it’s right there, he thinks he has to. He’s also pleased to note that there are plenty of towels on offer, meaning he will be able to _choose_ which one he’ll use. The cottage is proving itself to be a very good find. Closing the door, he continues down the corridor. It opens up to a massive room the size of the kitchen and living room combined. Only… there seems to be a problem. Quite a big one at that. 

“Malfoy, wh-” Potter says. Apparently it’s his turn to walk into Draco, and he lets out a small grunt of pain. Draco finds himself warming considerably, but he pushes the thought away. “Oh.”

‘Oh’ doesn’t quite sum it up. 

“Yep.” Draco berates himself for using such a common word. Potter is already influencing him, and it’s only been a very short while. Except, Draco doesn’t remember Potter using that word today… Damn it. 

Pushing the word to the back of his mind, he continues the—very bad—conversation. “Do you think we’ll actually have to sleep here?” He asks, more to himself than Potter. 

“I hope not,” Potter answers anyway. “I don’t want to be here for that long.”

“It’s not exactly my first choice either!” 

He turns to Draco with outrage etched onto his face. “Why are you acting like it’s _my_ fault?!” He snaps. “I didn’t bloody conjure the cottage up or something!”

Draco scoffs. “You must have had _something_ to do with this!” He quips. “These types of things don’t happen to me. They are, though, very typical for you.”

“Not since I was seventeen!” Potter all but yells. Draco flinches. 

“Out.”

“What?!”

“Out. Now. You’re leaving.” Draco ushers Potter out of the bedroom, forcing him out into the corridor. 

“What? Do you expect me to take the damn couch?!” Potter is now arguing from the other side of the door. “I don’t bloody think so!”

“Well we most definitely aren’t _sharing_ and there’s no way _I’m_ taking the sofa. So yes, Potty. Deal with it.” Draco aims the strongest locking charm he can think of at the handle, and then a couple more just to play it safe. 

Honestly. Potter has some nerve! Dragging draco out of bed, forcing him to assess that stupid cabinet... and now look at where they've ended up! Draco’s blood is boiling in a way no one else can get it to. Potter has always driven him up a wall. Draco sighs. He knows he needs to calm down. Bad things happen when he’s irrational. He can’t let his anger rule his head. He needs to find something to do. 

Now that he has time to think and has moved beyond the one-bed problem, Draco actually takes the room in. It looks very… cozy. Well, it is a cottage in the middle of a forest, so really, that should be expected. The floorboards are a lovely warm colour, with an off-white rug thrown over them. The bed is really very big, and is decked out in white, grey, and rose-gold linen and pillows. There’s a beautiful pendant fixture above it, sending warm light through the room. Draco allows himself a second to close his eyes and catch his breath. When he opens them again, he spots a bookshelf in one corner—next to an unlit fireplace—and feels a smile grow on his lips. He makes his way across the room to inspect the selection of books on offer. There are a couple of good ones, but he doesn’t particularly feel like reading any of them. He looks around for something else to do. 

His eyes land on a puzzle box, hidden behind a row of books. He pulls it out and opens the lid. Puzzles always make him feel like a little kid. He used to solve them with his mother before… well, when he was younger. Tipping out the contents onto the rug, he starts flipping the pieces over and separating them into piles. The corners are the easiest to find, and he places them a bit of a distance away from each other in what he _thinks_ are the correct places. Wouldn’t it be hilarious if one corner was off and the whole thing then didn’t work? Draco shudders. Next are the edges, which are always more of a challenge. Usually he gets halfway through the puzzle and then finds a random edge that he needs to fit in somewhere. He loses himself in sorting through the pieces and eventually putting them back together, watching as the sun sinks lower in the sky. 

By the time he has a tiny picture somewhere in the middle, he figures out what it is he’s making. He groans loudly and curses the gods again. It’s the outside of the fucking cottage. Draco barely manages to stop himself tearing the whole thing to shreds. He needs something to do, and removing his source of entertainment would _not_ be a good idea. Scowling for the rest of the evening, he rushes through completing the puzzle, keeping a tab of the number of pieces he’s successfully connected. 

*~*~*~

Once the puzzle is finally finished—and although Draco was very annoyed at the picture originally—it is actually quite beautiful. The cottage has a dusting of snow on the roof, and the trees around it are capped with white. It’s gorgeous, even if Draco still kind of wants to set it on fire. One thousand pieces is very big and took a lot of energy, so setting it on fire would be rather counterproductive. Levitating it carefully to the coffee table perched at the end of the bed, he stretches the kinks out of his neck and back. One side of his neck cracks in an extremely satisfying, yet disgusting manner, and he hums contentedly. Time may have passed quite quickly while working on the puzzle, but his stomach doesn’t seem too happy about skipping lunch. After stretching and putting the feeling back into his legs, Draco undoes the many locking charms on the door and starts down the hallway.

As he walks, he begins to pick up the pleasant smell of chocolate in the air. Once he enters the living room he spots Potter lounging on the sofa with a novel, mug in hand. He looks up as Draco enters, a cheeky grin on his mouth. 

“The dragon has emerged from his lair,” he teases. 

Draco feels a muscle in his jaw jump, and he forces himself to remain calm. Snapping and yelling won’t help. Pettiness, on the other hand… 

“Look, Malfoy,” Potter is saying now, in a tone that makes him think he’s about to say something important. 

Draco tunes him out as he walks into the kitchen and starts shuffling things around. Contrary to most people’s first impressions of him—especially if his history is added into the equation—he can actually cook a very decent meal. Having lived in a flat by himself for four years, he’s learned how to survive on his own. It’s utterly irrelevant if for the first two months he only ate takeaway, the _point_ is that now he can _cook._

As he rifles through the cupboards though, he doesn’t find anything that he wants to eat. He’s not bothered making a normal meal for himself, and there aren’t many ingredients available for a light one. Well, his plan was to create a bigger, better hot cocoa to spite Potter. That can still go ahead. Draco reaches for the most extravagant mug he can find—a glass one with a rounded base—and sets to heating up the milk. He finds that, even though there are lots of ways to make it, the best method is to warm some milk and drop chocolate straight into it. With a little twist of literal magic, it becomes a creamy, rich mixture. Once it’s heated up he pours it carefully into the mug, hurriedly adding the chocolate and stirring it in. He watches with a small smile as it blends, the milk turning from white to a deep, rich brown. 

Draco swiftly sets some more spells in place, keeping it at the same temperature and preventing anything from reacting negatively. This is a really important step, as when he adds the next ingredients things don’t hold for very long without it. Once magic is added, it just seems to keep piling up. He picks up the container of whipped cream and dollops a hefty amount on top of the drink. Then, he dribbles it with chocolate syrup, and places some marshmallows gently into the cream. He allows himself to actually smile now. Making hot cocoa always cheers him up. Draco flicks his wand and everything he’d set out whips back into its proper place. 

Draco carefully picks up his mug and turns to Potter. He’s watching him very carefully, almost as if he’d just observed a very rare sight. Draco rolls his eyes and takes a measured sip of his beverage. He turns a wince into a smirk when he burns his tongue. He always forgets to make it a _drinkable_ temperature, rather than just keeping it the same. His stomach rumbles softly and he winces. While a hot chocolate may make him feel like he’s accomplished something (namely, pissing Potter off), it doesn’t do anything to soothe his hunger. He hurriedly turns back to the kitchen and prepares himself a sandwich. It’s nothing fancy, just a bit of ham and cheese between two normal slices of bread. Even so, as he carries his food out of the kitchen and walks past Potter, he can feel eyes on him. Potter is scowling slightly, clearly measuring his drink against Draco’s. Draco feels very accomplished as he locks the bedroom door and prepares for bed. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the love on the first chapter! <3

[A pair of snowflakes on a dark blue background] 

**December 2nd, 2003 - Tuesday**

The sun streams through the uncurtained windows, and Harry groans loudly. He throws an arm over his eyes, before suddenly recoiling. The movement twinged a muscle in the back of his neck. A sharp pain stings up his back, and he rubs at it. Years of being an Auror mean years of waking up in weird places; usually on concrete floors. Except… this doesn’t feel like concrete. On the contrary, it’s actually pretty comfortable. But it’s definitely not a bed, which is what he’s supposed to be waking up in. What, it’s the second of December? Is that right? It sounds right. Well, Harry’s next stake-out isn’t scheduled until just after Christmas. So that begs the question, where on earth is he?!

Harry blinks his eyes open, struggling to get them to focus. Glasses. Right. He flings an arm out, hoping to hit a table or something of the like where he could’ve put them. When he doesn’t, and instead just causes more pain down his back, he gives up. He sleeps with his wand in his pocket. Very dangerous, he knows, but it’s a habit left over from- Well, never mind _where_ it’s left over from. It’s just a long-standing habit that being an Auror hasn’t helped remove. Surely enough, when Harry slides an arm down his body and deep into his pocket, his hand wraps around the length of wood. He pulls it out and drops it lazily on his chest. 

“Accio glasses,” he grumbles, his voice still rough from sleep. 

The metal frames smack into the side of his head. Not quite what he was aiming for, but at least he now knows where they are. Groaning and ignoring the pain in his neck, he slides them onto his face. 

He blinks a couple of times, allowing his eyes to slowly adjust to the room. Once it finally comes into focus, he remembers exactly where he is. The pale tones, grey couch, and wide windows set the very obvious scene for Harry. He’s still in the fucking cottage. In the middle of the woods. Or is it a forest…? He isn’t sure, but it doesn’t really matter, he’s here anyway. He grumbles, running a hand through his hair. It really is getting too long, Hermione’s right. Sighing, he pushes himself upright. Shaking his head, he wills his legs to work as he slowly stands up. He manages to stand, and after a couple of seconds he removes his hand from the couch. He doesn’t quite fall back down, but it is a near thing. 

Working feeling into his arms as he goes, he makes his way down the corridor and towards the bathroom. Harry nearly always showers in the morning, and he doesn’t see why he shouldn’t today. Even if Draco Malfoy is in the room next to it. God, but this is a strange situation. He opens the door and takes a moment to marvel at the bathroom. Despite having used it yesterday, it looks just as stunning today. The blue tiles bounce light around the room, and it looks majestic. Not that he has strong thoughts on interior design. Much. Okay, maybe he does, but he’ll never admit it out loud. Ron would have his neck for liking something like that. It would remind him too much of Hermione, who is determined to refurbish their little house. 

He starts stripping off, pulling his shirt up over his head and watching as goosebumps prickle onto his skin. Abruptly, he halts. He should probably check if the Ferret is awake, shouldn’t he? Yeah, he thinks so. Although, he’s not sure _why._ It’s not as if they’re on friendly terms, or that it’s expected he would keep quiet. If anything, he should cause a ruckus to wake him up, but that would be too petty. Or would it? That _is_ what Malfoy would do… No, too petty. So, even though he doesn’t know why he’s doing it, he turns and leaves the bathroom. 

Carefully, Harry tiptoes down the corridor towards the bedroom as quietly as possible. When he arrives at the door Malfoy is locked behind, he presses his ear to the wood. Heavy breathing is the only sound, disturbing the otherwise silent cottage—the kind of breathing that is only possible when someone is fast asleep. Straightening up, Harry shakes his head at himself and goes back to the bathroom. This time, he closes the door softly and continues undressing. The shower in the bathroom is rather odd, he thinks. It’s tucked away on the left side, but it looks like it's its own little room. A wall of glass separates it from the rest of the bathroom, but that is only the front wall. The rest of it is enclosed with plaster and tiles. A thrum of excitement runs through him at the prospect of using a fancy shower, and he hurriedly gets in and turns the water as hot as possible.

*~*~*~

Sighing in contentment as he steps out of the shower, Harry reaches for the closest towel. There are multiple to choose from, but without his glasses they all look like colourful blobs. He rubs his hair roughly and starts drying his skin off. It’s tinged pink from the scalding water, and that alone seems to be holding off the goosebumps. He rushes through getting dressed, not wanting to freeze to death after a warm shower. Especially not since Malfoy would be the one to find him naked. He shudders at the thought. 

Once he’s rugged up in jeans, a long sleeve shirt, socks, and a thick coat, Harry makes his way into the kitchen. His hair drips down his back, but he has to let it air dry. The muggle method of drying hair leaves it frizzy and unruly. The wizard way isn’t much better. Looking around the small kitchen, he opens cupboards and doors randomly. He knows he wants breakfast, but the problem is always _what._ As he rifles through things, Harry finds all of the ingredients required for avocado and poached eggs on toast. Grinning at his luck of finding his favourite breakfast ingredients in an abandoned cottage, he gathers all of them up and lays them out. 

Harry busies himself cooking his breakfast, making sure to be as quiet as possible. Wouldn't want to risk waking the Ferret and having to face his wrath. He goes about cutting and preparing the ingredients, rifling through cupboards for knives, plates, and pans. A moment later, his breakfast is sitting perfectly on a plate with a glass of water. His mouth waters at the sight, and he carries it out into the living room. 

A door bangs open from the other side of the house, and a harried Malfoy storms into view. 

“You bastard!” He shouts. “You woke me up with all that noise!”

Harry sighs pointedly, he wasn't even that loud and it took less than ten minutes.

“You didn’t even make me any!” 

“What?” Harry splutters. “Of course I didn’t! It’s your fault we’re here in the first place!” Rage starts boiling through his blood and he clenches his hands into fists. He knows, deep down, that it's not worth it; fighting with Malfoy. He knows that he’ll walk away defeated, and hurt, and yet, he can’t bring himself to stop. Something about the way they fight ignites something within him, and he loves the feeling. 

“ _Me_?!” Malfoy gestures at himself. “I believe it was _you_ who brought in that stupid Vanishing Cabinet!” 

And dear God, Malfoy is right. He’s always right. It drives Harry mental. 

Malfoy whirls always and stalks into the kitchen, signalling the end of the short argument. He’s now going to brood and be a nightmare for the rest of the day. Harry rolls his eyes, delighting in the childish nature of the action, and starts eating his breakfast. It tastes amazing, and Harry mentally pats himself on the back. Knowing how to cook has really come in handy, and if he tries hard enough he can forget the distant past. Forget the negative memories, and replace them with nice ones. Like cooking for his friends, and with Mrs Weasley. He hums to himself as he takes another bite. 

A crash from the kitchen startles Harry out of his thoughts and he turns. Malfoy is standing at the stove attempting to make a fry-up. He appears to know what he’s doing, even if he _did_ just drop a plate. He looks frantic and embarrassed for a second, before quickly vanishing the shattered plate and choosing a different one. Harry smirks to himself and continues watching Malfoy—another habit of his that’s hard to break. The rest of the cooking goes by normally though, a perfectly decent meal making its way onto the plate. Even though Harry finished eating a while ago, he hasn’t stopped looking. When Malfoy turns around he nearly drops the new plate too, startled at being watched so closely. He sneers at Harry and storms off into the bedroom. The door slams and locks behind him, and Harry gets up to do the dishes without complaint. 

*~*~*~

Lunch has come and gone, and Malfoy still hasn’t resurfaced; Harry is becoming restless. He’s never been good at sitting and waiting, one of the reasons he joined the Aurors, really. If he’d known how much of the job was doing just that, he might have reconsidered. Probably not, since the main reason Harry became an Auror in the first place was to be closer to his father. Everyone always says that James Potter would undoubtedly have become an Auror had he survived, and Harry had always wanted to know as much of his family as possible, to connect with them in whatever way he could manage. Even so, sitting outside buildings waiting for suspicious people to enter does get boring. 

He stands quickly, tripping over his own feet as an idea forms in his mind. If Malfoy isn’t going to be sociable (and he never really is so it’s not much of a surprise) Harry is going to have to entertain himself. In an effort to do just that, Harry starts working through their situation as if it’s a job. He might as well use some of the skills from training to help his current situation. If he can’t use magic to get them back to London, he’ll have to figure out where they are, and how to get back the muggle way. It shouldn’t be too hard, right? No. Of course not. He just needs to find a town or something, and ask about directions back to London. Without a second thought, Harry leaves the cottage and braves the cold reality of outside. He regrets it almost instantly, but he pushes on. He wasn’t sorted into Gryffindor for nothing. 

Gritting his teeth, he casts a warming charm and wraps his coat firmly around himself. It may not be a heavy cloak—which would have been much preferred considering his breath is forming clouds around his face—but it is better than nothing. The path beneath Harry’s sneakers crunches, his feet stepping on hardened snow. When he lifts his head from watching his feet, the forest is looming over him. It’s daunting, being so small on the ground, while the trees are basically skyscrapers. Harry halts in the snow, heart freezing. He shakes his head, trying to dislodge the feeling. He hates forests. Ever since… No. 

But no matter how much he tries to avoid them, he keeps being plunged back into them. Usually, it’s in the form of stakeouts. He can deal with those. He doesn’t know why, but something about them feels different. Probably because there’s always another person there. He doesn’t feel as isolated. But it could also be that he’s just normalised it, and that he knows that even _if_ there was a war going on, his wards would hold. At least, he likes to think they would.

Harry tries to get a grip of himself. He’s safe. He may be trapped in a cottage with Draco Malfoy of all people, but he isn’t in any danger. Malfoy may not be the most civil person to deal with, but he doesn’t seem to want to harm Harry. He seems almost… arrogant. But not like he used to be. More like he’s trying to impress Harry, in his own backwards way. The hot chocolate Harry had made himself last night in order to relax, had turned into a competition. One which Malfoy had won fair and square. It _had_ been truly magnificent. Harry sighs. He can’t think about Malfoy like that too much. It doesn’t sit quite right. 

Everyone thought they would have settled their differences by now. They’ve worked together on and off for three years after all. That’s a long time to still hold a grudge against someone. Even if privately, Harry doesn’t think that animosity is there. Sure, there is still a rivalry of sorts. But the quips have become less sharp and more amusing. The insults aren’t really directed at Harry anymore—unless he’s done something utterly stupid, like ruining one of Malfoy’s jackets with a potion—and more towards the other Aurors and Unspeakables. Malfoy may not show it, or even know he feels this way, but Harry is sure that if not for their history, they would be friends. At least, he likes to hope they would be, because it makes thinking of him like that easier. 

Bushes rustle and a black blur runs out across the path. Harry startles and immediately reaches for his wand, but the whir of black is now on the ground next to the path. It’s a fox. Nothing scary or threatening about a fox, and it isn’t even black. It’s orange. It’s not some dark creature shrouded in darkness at all. Harry forces his breathing back to normal, calms his wildly beating heart. He doesn’t do well in forests. It’s pathetic really. Even though Hermione tells him it’s the trauma, and that he should go see a therapist, Harry doesn’t. He doesn’t feel the need, as he just gives forests a wide berth instead. It’s much preferable to talking to someone. He doesn’t like talking about it, and telling a stranger about it feels… off. He shakes his head at himself and starts walking through the trees again. He needs to stop doing that. Needs to stop stopping just because something happens. Like being mysteriously teleported into the middle of nowhere. 

He nearly shut down yesterday. Would have, if not for Malfoy’s tantrum. It was somewhat hilarious, and Harry had had to hold it together long enough for Malfoy to slam the bedroom door closed again. Thinking of the scene from last night, Harry makes his way through the rest of the forest fairly calmly. It’s a great memory to hang on to, and he must remember to put it in his Pensieve when he gets back to Grimmauld. After a while, light pierces through the thick, snow-covered trees, and Harry allows his spirits to soar. He’s nearly out of the forest, and hopefully that means civilisation. When he pushes a branch away from his eyes and steps onto solid grass, he nearly falls to his knees. He’s out, and he’s safe. He couldn’t be happier. 

Determined, he presses on until his entire body is clear of the thick trees. He shivers, his skin running with goosebumps as a soft breeze picks up. With a new warming charm firmly in place, Harry looks up and takes in his surroundings. In front of him, there is what looks to be a village plaza. There’s red brick paving, creating a pattern of lines with white bricks. It looks straight out of a Muggle fairytale, and Harry feels comforted almost instantly. Almost, because next to the gorgeous water fountain in the center, there is a Vanishing Cabinet. A fucking beechwood Vanishing Cabinet, with purple swirls and a silver handle. The exact same Vanishing Cabinet that he’d brought into the department _yesterday._

Harry walks over to it, steering clear and trying not to touch it while getting a good look at it. His footsteps tap sharply on the pavement, and he finds reassurance in the steadiness. He leans close, eyes roaming over the wood and coloured swirls. However, trying not to touch quickly proves challenging, and he gives up. His hand, slowly but surely, stretches out and places itself flat down on the cool wood. Expectation sizzles in the air, and he waits for something to happen; for something to go wrong. When nothing changes, Harry heaves a sigh. He had kind of hoped that he would just be teleported back to London. He shouldn’t have gotten his hopes up really. There wouldn’t have been any point in this whole mess if it was just a game of hide-and-seek with a cupboard. 

As he looks closely over the wood and silver, his eyes catch on something. He peers even closer, his face nearly touching the handle. As his eyes focus on it, he sees that what had caught his attention was just the reflection of a tree behind him. He sighs yet again, his breath puffing out around him in the cold. Harry shoves his hands into his coat pockets and lifts his head from the Vanishing Cabinet. Now that he’s actually looking, there appears to be a couple of shops scattered around. None of them look like they have been open for a very long time, but Harry still feels like he needs to check them out. His Auror senses are tingling, and who is he to deny them? Especially when he’s been removed from ordinary life and thrust into… whatever fantasy world this is. 

Harry crosses the small patch of frosty grass and steps onto a concrete path. His hand flies out as he very nearly slips and lands on his arse. Thankfully though, he manages to catch himself on a light post. That would have been embarrassing. Even though there doesn’t seem to be anyone around. He scans the area carefully, searching for evidence of another person’s presence. Nothing jumps out at him. There are no lights on in any of the shops, no litter, no smell of food, no stray article of clothing. Nothing gives away any sign of people, except, of course, for the buildings and architecture. 

Harry groans, mumbling to himself about his misfortune. He had gone looking for _people,_ not for an abandoned plaza. _Fuck it,_ Harry decides, and continues down the path and opens the first shop door he comes across. The door itself is a beautiful, warm wood. It’s attached to a cobblestone wall, and when he tips his head back he reads a sign saying “Bakers’ Dozen”. Smiling faintly to himself and imagining a busy bakery filled with happy customers, Harry pushes open the door. The little shop is exceedingly cozy on the inside, with a sweeping counter and big tables. A large vase sits on the centre-most table, and the empty glass reminds Harry of the tragic atmosphere. Something has happened here, he can feel it. It feels off. Wrong, in a way. It could just be that it’s empty and that’s getting to him, but he isn’t sure that’s it. Shaking the feeling away, he steps back out onto the path. 

Being the stubborn Gryffindor that he is, Harry decides to keep going. To push on. He walks down the path, looking for the next little shop. It isn’t until he turns a corner that a glittering jeweller comes into view. The giant glass windows reveal empty displays, and it becomes glaringly obvious that it’s deserted just like the rest of the village. What once would have been a magnificent casing filled with jewellery and gemstones, is now only empty space and wooden slats. A jolt of melancholy hits Harry, and he has to swallow it down first before stepping into the store. 

Harry’s first thought upon entering is that the people in this village must have been Rich, with a capital ‘R’. Despite looking humble and modest, this jeweller is anything but. And really, Harry must have expected it deep down. The whole point of jewellery stores is that they are shiny, beautiful, and expensive. Very expensive. This one is no different in nature, even if it looks almost antique in styling. The walls are wooden—not plaster or bricks, but actual wood—and there are beams running across the ceiling. He tries to ignore the cobwebs stretched over the wood, but he finds his eyes drawn to them. He hates spiders, ever since- ever since Second Year. The shop is filled with wall-to-wall glass cabinets, perfect for displaying glittering wares. Harry’s jaw drops as he spots a cabinet which still contains something. He makes his way around the room, looking into every glass window and finding each one very, very empty. 

  
Until he gets to the one which isn’t. It displays necklaces, proudly standing out in various colours. There’s a stunning red and orange one, with a pendant shaped like a water droplet hanging from a silver chain. The contrast of red to what would normally be blue is so intriguing, and Harry finds himself drawn to it for no other reason. Next to it, there is a different necklace with a purple sun, once again dangling from silver. He smiles faintly to himself, imagining a woman grinning as she buys it. Except, that won’t ever happen, because the village is deserted. With that unwelcome jolt back to reality, Harry can’t find it in himself to keep looking around. This was someone’s _livelihood_ once upon a time, and here he is, just gawking at everything. Shaking his head, he files out of the jeweller and back onto the path. 

Across said path and another patch of grass, there appears to be a bookshop. Harry’s thoughts immediately fly to Hermione, and he suppresses a smile. She would love it here, if there were still people about. There are plenty of unique shops, and the village has a real character to it that can’t be replicated. She would adore it, and she would spend hours in that bookstore. Sighing, he decides to boycott it. He can’t bear to think of her right now. Not when he’s hundreds, maybe thousands, of kilometres away and God knows where, while she’s no doubt in London, blissfully unaware that he’s missing. Except, does it really count as missing if he’s with someone else? In a picturesque location, with everything they need? Really, it just sounds like a holiday. But it’s not! Harry snarls to himself. It’s not a holiday, because he’s here against his will. In the Auror department, that counts as a missing persons case. 

Harry sighs and runs his hand through his hair. He takes deep breaths for a moment, watching as his breath creates little clouds in the still air. After a while, he calms down. He looks around once again, searching for something that might catch his attention. He spots a tattoo parlour, and wonders for the first time _when_ the village was abandoned. It can’t have been all that long ago, considering that the parlour looks quite modern and up to date with standards. Harry would know, since his job is literally catching criminals hiding behind store fronts—of which the most common mistake is that they don’t match requirements after a while, so Harry is very familiar with them. 

After a minute’s contemplation, he comes to the conclusion that he won’t enter it. Or any more stores, for that matter. The last two he entered just made him feel off and sad, and he doesn’t really want to push his emotions in that direction. He does decide to keep looking though, because window shopping never hurt anyone. So as he continues down the concrete path, Harry plays a game with himself. He has to try to guess what the building is before he sees any definitive give away, like a sign. 

The first one he fails at miserably. It’s a little brick building, with large windows and colourful posters. At first, he thinks it’s a clothing store. It’s not a totally dull-witted idea really. Except that when he moves closer, he reads the sign saying “Hairdresser”. He groans and grumbles to himself. That would explain the rather curious amounts of hair on all the models. He turns his eyes across the road and spots what he thinks _has_ to be grocer. A little local one, at that. The wooden crates at the front door are a bit of a give away, but not so much so that he shouldn’t get the point. As he moves closer, he sees that it is indeed a grocery, and he grins to himself. 

The last little building on this side of the road is rather nondescript. It’s in the same red brick as the pavement from the plaza, and has a regular, black roof. Well, it looks black, but it is plausible that it’s just dirt and grime. Harry has no idea what it could be, and walks ever closer trying to make it out. He doesn’t come up with a single idea, and there isn’t a sign out the front either. Not wanting to break in—despite no one being around and having already entered two shops—he looks through the small windows in determination. Nothing. It’s only as he’s turning away and losing hope that a poster inside gives it away. “Best Butcher, 1995”. Well, that answers both of his questions. It’s a butchershop and the village was shut down only eight years ago. 

Harry swallows hard, trying desperately not to picture the people who lived here not even a decade ago. He was fifteen. He sighs, not wanting to think about what he was doing at fifteen. It feels like it happened to a different person, in a different lifetime. Yet the scar across his hand begs to differ. He pushes his thoughts away. He’s spent enough of his life thinking about everything, he wants to enjoy himself right now without the war plaguing him. It’s only as he’s setting off down the path and heading back towards the plaza that he notices it. Snow. It’s falling lightly right now, little puffs of it that look right out of a photograph. But as he’s looking up at the sky, the clouds look heavy. If he squints into the distance ahead of himself, he sees it falling heavily beyond the forest. Cursing under his breath, he casts multiple shields and warming charms, and starts running back into the forest. 

The pavements beneath his feet turn into dirt, and before he knows it, Harry is racing through the trees he so hates. He pushes branches out of the way, ducking to avoid being hit in the face. A couple of times he _is_ clonked over the head, but he doesn’t stop running. He hates forests, and he wants to be out of this one as soon as possible. One thought that never crossed his mind though, is that because the forest is so thick, the snow isn’t getting anywhere near him. He could have stopped running ages ago, the second he stepped under the tree line, but instead he kept going. Harry pushes himself harder, willing his legs to carry him faster. He needs to get back to the cottage. The cottage is safe and warm. There are signs of life there, unlike the deserted and gloomy village. 

By the time Harry is out of the forest and sprinting down the cottage’s path, he is very out of breath. He isn’t quite sweating, but he imagines that he would be if not for the cold. As it is, his skin is flushed pink. Snow flies out from beneath his feet as he approaches the door, and he allows himself to exhale in relief when his hand collides with it. He’s here. Except, there’s one problem. One big problem, that will need to be dealt with before going inside. The door is nearly snowed under. 

Harry groans and sighs, but accepts his fate all the same. Forgetting all about his wand and his magic, he starts to shovel the snow away by hand. He very quickly loses the sensation in his hands; and his patience. Wondering why he even bothered, he pulls his wand out of his coat pocket and blasts the snow away. Maybe it was a bit dramatic, but Harry thinks it was worth it to see the snow explode and melt. Grumbling to himself about the trials of winter and unfair weather conditions, he opens the door and enters the cottage. 

He’s immediately reminded of why he left. The living area is totally deserted, but there are dishes to do and things to clean up. Malfoy has clearly had a good time by himself this afternoon. Harry isn’t happy about it, but he tidies up and then prepares for bed. Bed, of course being the couch in the living room. At least it’s comfortable-ish. Out of all the couches in the world to be stuck on, this isn’t the worst. Still, he would much prefer to be sleeping on his bed. His bed at Grimmauld has heating charms to keep him warm throughout the long winter nights. He would do basically anything to get back to it, but for now he’s on the couch with Malfoy down the hall. 


	3. Chapter 3

[Four pairs of feet wearing Christmas socks in front of a fire]

**December 3rd, 2003 - Wednesday**

Draco groans, rolling over and stuffing his face into the pillow. For a second, he forgets where he is and imagines himself in his little flat. When the realisation hits that the pillow is rose gold and not the deep blue of his own pillow, he is jolted awake. He sits up in a blur, not paying attention to his hair falling into his eyes. After allowing his eyes to adjust to the light, he stifles a yawn and rolls out of bed. He stretches broadly before making his way into the bathroom. 

Draco goes about getting ready, cursing the gods that he is still _here._ Really, he doesn’t think it would be so hard for them to just… wave him away or something. ‘Something’ seems to be the only answer he’s going to get though. After he’s showered in the very interesting, cupboard-like shower, he dries and styles his hair and goes through his morning routine. He doesn’t know when it became so long and complicated. All he used to do was wash his face and put some moisturiser on. Along the way though, he’s picked up more creams, each with slightly different purposes. If he’s honest with himself, he doesn’t know what most of them do. Either way, it’s become a half hour routine, and by the time he’s finished, his hair has dried completely.

As Draco walks into the kitchen, he spares a glance at Potter. He’s asleep on the sofa, his face turned into the back cushions and hiding his face from the daylight. Draco feels a small smile settle on his lips and immediately crushes it. No use getting soft over a sleeping Potter, when he wakes up he’ll be just as frustrating as always. Even so, Draco casts multiple spells to darken the living room and to shut sound out from the kitchen. He walks past and busies himself making breakfast, thinking back on the last couple of days. Monday morning was when everything changed. When he had been called in to work on his one day off—which was normally annoying enough—and was then somehow teleported to a cottage in the forest. With Harry Potter, of all people. If he’s being honest with himself, he just wants to go back home. This may have felt weird and slightly intriguing at the beginning, with the puzzles and hot chocolate competitions and the snow, but now it’s edging on uncomfortable. 

With that in mind, Draco rotates the piece of bread he’s roasting over the stove and comes up with a plan for the day. He _will_ find a way back to London. He is desperate to get back to his flat. Back to work, to his friends, to his mother, and to be preparing for Christmas. This is his busiest time of year, even without the parties that he grew up with. He normally goes shopping around this time, making sure he has plenty of time to select the perfect gifts without the stores already being empty. The right present is really important—most people don’t understand just _how_ important—and he feels slightly sick when he thinks of how this Christmas might turn out. What if he isn’t back before then? Will anyone even notice?

Draco scolds himself. Of course people will notice. He has lunch with his mother every Sunday, for a start. So she'd find out that something was off by the seventh, at the latest. Apart from that, he also regularly catches up with Blaise, Theo, and Pansy. There’s also the people he works with. They’re sure to notice he isn’t there, if for no other reason than that they can’t make fun of him. Somehow, even despite the long hours and perfect record he has with the Department of Mysteries, people still seem to be waiting for him to slip up. Like they expect him to just turn and around and become his father. Draco physically suppresses a shudder at the thought of becoming like his late father, and starts absentmindedly spreading the jam over his toast. 

Today, the plan is to search all through the cottage and it’s surely vast amount of wards, for a way out. He wants to make sure there isn’t any obvious way that he might have overlooked before he goes tearing open magical holes and poking around. Altering wards is very tricky and requires very precise movements, so he probably needs to make sure that Potter stays out of his way the entire time. That should be pretty easy, really. Just get mad at him for something stupid and he should slink away again like he did yesterday. The cottage was exceedingly quiet without him, and while it might have been uncomfortable then, it would surely be welcome now. With his mind set and a list forming in his brain, Draco settles in on one of the dining table chairs and starts eating his very basic and boring breakfast. 

*~*~*~

“Malfoy?” Potter’s sleepy and groggy voice murmurs from the sofa. “What time is it?”

Draco sighs and finishes cleaning off his plate and mug of coffee in the sink. “Around ten I think.”

Potter’s breath gets caught in his throat and he jumps up in a rush. “Ten?!” He exclaims. “Why didn’t you wake me?!”

“What? Do you have plans for today or something?” It’s meant to come out as a drawl, but Draco doesn’t quite succeed. He hopes Potter misses it with his rapid moving and panicking. 

“Well,” Potter starts. “Not exactly… I’m just not used to getting up so late.” His hand rubs the back of his neck, almost like he’s massaging it. 

“Well I _do_ have plans, actually, and I would highly recommend leaving the cottage so I can achieve them.” 

Potter scoffs from where he’s walking to the bathroom. “What? So you can trash it again like you did yesterday?”

Draco flushes. “I did no such thing!” Even though he knows that he _did_ leave the cottage a mess so Potter had to clean it. It was highly satisfactory listening to him grumble and pick everything up. Draco doesn’t even remember what he did to trash it, just that the outcome was as he wanted. 

Potter shakes his head to himself as he turns the corner, and a second later a door shuts and the shower starts. Draco sighs and finishes cleaning his dishes. His plan was to lure Potter _out_ of the house, not further into it. He decides that his search has to go ahead regardless. He _warned_ Potter so he can’t be angry. With his mind set, Draco makes his way to the fireplace in the living room. He crouches down in front of it, and draws his wand. As an Unspeakable, he knows a whole array of spells purely for turning a fire into a Floo connection. He runs through the very long list, waiting for the flames to turn green. It never happens. Draco tries every single spell he’s ever heard of for this purpose, and still the fire remains stubbornly orange. It mustn’t be connected to the Floo Network. Who builds a house without connecting it to the Floo Network? Honestly, the gods really _do_ have it out for him, don’t they?

Draco groans but stands. If none of the Unspeakable spells have worked on it there’s nothing else that will. Stretching out his knees and cracking his joints, he wobbles for a couple of steps before regaining his balance. Maybe the fireplace in the bedroom is connected. Doubtful, but worth a try anyway. He walks out of the living room and down the corridor, past the bathroom and into the bedroom. He’s left with a sense of déjà vu from two days ago, and he has to close his eyes for a second. Despite the bed being quite comfortable, he aches for his own flat. Crouching down in front of the grate, Draco waves his wand and starts a fire. As he stares into the flames—skin warming and eyes losing focus—he empties his mind of every thought. He doesn’t get the chance to lose himself very often, and so he jumps at every opportunity. 

After a moment of nothingness, he starts going through the list for a second time. Nothing happens to these flames either, staying annoyingly orange. He scrubs a hand over his face. He expected it, but it’s still frustrating. Even so, it does give him somewhat of an answer. Whoever put him and Potter here—because surely _someone_ is behind this and it’s not just some big coincidence—doesn’t want to make it easy to get back. Standing up, Draco moves into the living area once again. It feels like all he’s done today is aimlessly wander around, even if he knows there is a purpose behind it. Clearing his head and willing himself to relax, he enters the living room. His eyes search for Potter on instinct, and is somewhat disappointed when he doesn’t see him. If he really listens though, he can hear him moving about in the bathroom still. 

Deciding that there is no point trying to Apparate again—since he tried on Monday and all he got was a distant laugh from Potter—he changes his tactic. Maybe, if he finds clues on how they got here in the first place, he might be able to reverse it. It’s worth a shot, at least. Stupid cursed objects. Why does he have to be plagued by them? Especially by Vanishing Cabinets. Ignoring that he _chose_ his job, and that _Potter_ found this Cabinet, he almost manages to work himself into a snit. Almost. It doesn’t work because Potter suddenly appears in the doorway, smirking. 

“What’cha doin’ Malfoy?” 

Draco frowns but twists it into a sneer. “Speaking proper English, for a start.”

Even though he isn’t facing him, he can basically feel Potter rolling his eyes. “I meant with your wand out and your clothes covered in ash.”

Draco feels his eyes widen. He looks down. Sure enough, his trousers are coated in a thin layer of ash from the fireplaces. Sighing to himself for not thinking of an anti-dust shield, he quickly spells himself clean. Ignoring the last half of the question, he answers, “Looking for a way back to London.”

When there is no reply, he turns to face Potter. His eyebrows have risen into his fringe. He really needs a haircut. He also needs to dry the drips of water trailing down his neck and below his collar. Potter shakes his head and runs a hand through his too-long hair. “I’ve already tried, there isn’t anything.”

“Excuse me if I don’t quite trust your spell work.” Apart from that, Draco has no idea when he could have tried to find something. He wasn’t even in the cottage yesterday!

“I can practically see your mind running, Malfoy,” Potter says. “When I left the cottage yesterday I went looking for other people or ways to leave. Nothing.” 

Draco frowns for real this time. “Well I’m looking within the cottage, so there might be something.”

“Ah,” Potter replies. “That explains the ash. You went crawling through the fireplace to connect it to the Floo, didn’t you?”

Draco feels his skin flush and curses his pale complexion. “Fireplace _s_ , plural.”

“Where’s the second one?” Potter asks. 

“In the bedroom…? Oh.”

Potter scoffs. “Yeah, ‘oh’. I haven’t actually been in there for more than a minute, have I?”

“No…”

Potter laughs like a maniac. “You forgot. You’re not the only one living here, Malfoy. I sleep on the couch every night for fuck’s sake!”

Draco feels a little sheepish, but he doesn’t comment. Instead, he turns back around and grips his wand tightly. 

“Oh, you’re ignoring me now, are you?” Potter snipes. “How mature.” 

Draco hears him throw some things onto the sofa and then storm out through the front door. At least he’s gone now. That was always part of the plan, and Draco should now be able to concentrate on pulling wards apart. But instead of raising his wand to begin casting, he’s overcome with a sense of loneliness. Like he’s out of place, or like something’s missing. Draco takes a deep breath to rein himself back in and goes to the kitchen to get a glass of water. 

*~*~*~

After a whole day of trying to pick apart wards—desperately looking for anything like Anti-Apparition ones—Draco is worn out. Not only were those not present, but neither were any _others_ preventing leaving. He doesn’t know why he can’t just Apparate out. The problem is, even if he did manage to find something, he wouldn’t have been to do anything about it. The wards are very tightly packed, he doubts a pin would fit between them. While his magic may be able to squeeze in, he wouldn’t have been able to see what he was doing. An expert must have put these up, he’s sure. But, if someone went to all the effort of assembling some top of the art wards, why did they abandon the cottage? Potter checked on Monday, no one has ever stayed here. It’s weird, and Draco tries not to think about it for too long. 

He decides to investigate the physical structure of the cottage. If there isn’t anything in the spell work, maybe there’s something blocking certain types of magic. It’s a stretch, Draco _knows_ it’s a stretch, but it’s a possibility. He’s seen it before. Once. In the very first year of his training. That’s not the point though. It’s possible. Draco begins by checking along each wall and seam. No matter how unlikely, someone might have stuffed a bit of material between the walls, or where they join with the ceiling and floor. He isn’t even sure what the material could be, just something that can be magically altered to absorb certain types of nearby magic. It’s complicated, and definitely not his area of expertise. If this was a case—a _real_ case and not one he has to solve just to get his life back to normal—he would call in an expert. Unfortunately, there are no means of which to contact anyone. Even if he doesn’t openly trust Potter’s investigating skills, he can’t be an Auror for nothing. If he says there aren’t any people nearby, it must be true. 

Focusing on the task at hand, he continues around the cottage. At first, he just pokes the walls and joints with the tip of his wand, looking for any sign of weakness. When he hasn’t found anything or accomplished something greater than looking like an utter idiot, he goes back around. This time though, he casts various spells on each and every wall. These spells should detect any differences in building material, any spell work, or any tampering after the original build. Draco walks around, jumping to reach where the plaster meets the ceiling, and crawling along the ground. He thinks it’s stupid, and as he keeps going and things keep coming back negative, he finds it increasingly frustrating. So it's unsurprising when nothing shows up. No clouds of coloured steam, no annoying (but telling) dings; no nothing. 

Draco sits back on his haunches in front of the door to the outside and catches his breath. Sweat is matted in his hair and he is covered in dust. He never would have thought he’d be sweaty in December, or thoroughly coated in dust, yet here he is. The cottage is—or rather, _was_ —quite dirty. Sighing and puffing his cheeks out just because he can, Draco stands and makes his way to the bathroom. Even though he already showered this morning, there is absolutely nothing stopping him drawing himself a bath. He’s wanted a bath since the second he saw it on Monday, and any excuse to get in it will gladly be taken. 

The bathroom is just as welcoming as this morning, and Draco turns on the hot water without a second thought. As it warms up, he strips out of his clothes. He shivers, goosebumps immediately rising on his skin. Hopeful, he checks the temperature. His hand freezes and he pulls it out. He tucks it in his armpit to keep it warm. Waiting for the water to heat up is the worst part of baths, especially in winter. When he checks it a second time, he’s delighted to find it warm. He plugs the drain and steps in. When it’s about half full, he uncaps one of the bottles on the edge and smells it. The bubble mixture is scented, and reminds him of Honeydukes. Smiling, Draco tips in a good portion. He watches as bubbles begin to float on top of the water. While baths may be rare in his normal schedule, bubbles are a luxury he indulges in even less often. Sighing contentedly, he turns the water off and flicks his wand to regulate the temperature. 

Draco slips in fully, water covering him up to his neck. He doesn’t really care if his hair gets wet, but he’d rather not dry it twice in the same day. Wizarding hair drying methods always dry his hair out slightly _too_ much, but he doesn’t have the patience for the Muggle equivalent. Closing his eyes, he relaxes into the hot water and wills the world away. There’s no quick way in which to leave the cottage, so he might as well fall asleep in the bath—only once he’s set alarms to wake him up if his head goes under, that is.

*~*~*~

The fire flickers, sending shadows leaping off the cream walls. Draco is settled in on the sofa—a Transfigured coffee table in front of him, since there wasn’t one to start with and honestly how stupid is that—waiting for when Potter comes back. He may have wanted him to leave in order to conduct his investigation, but he doesn’t want him to freeze overnight. The book in his hands is a good enough distraction, keeping his thoughts away from the man with green eyes. It’s a sappy, romantic thing he picked up from one of the bookshelves. So far it’s been pretty good, even if it’s a little cliche. At least it features two men, and not a straight couple. Draco doesn’t have the patience to read a romance novel with a man getting the girl. That’s _too_ cliche. Too overused to really be a good read. Even if the gay ones have the same tropes, the characters are very different. 

It pleases Draco incredibly that the cottage had a selection of gay books, and he intends to read them all. He may not be the quickest reader in the world—he has a habit of reading books as if he’s watching them happen, so all of the dialogue (and lets be real, all of the rest of it too) are read like a story being told aloud—but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t enjoy them. Refreshed after his bath, with a mug of tea in his hands and the book in his lap, it’s almost as if he’s back in Muggle London. No one bothers him there. He isn’t ‘a boy on the wrong side of a war’ to the Muggles, so they leave him alone since they know no better. Even though some of them have problems with the fact that he likes men, they don’t stick around long enough to be much of a bother. 

What’s bothering him now though is an insistent tapping. Draco groans and lifts his head from his book. He looks around, his eyes falling on the front door. Potter must be back. Carefully setting aside his mug and book, Draco stands from the sofa and wanders over to the door. He is immediately pushed aside by Potter, who practically _moans_ as he enters the warmth of the cottage. Draco shuts the door and sighs, glad to not be facing the cold and snow anymore. Without anything more than a grunt to Draco, Potter shrugs his coat off and makes for the bathroom. It seems like they’ve both bathed twice today. It’s funny how the world works. Sometimes, Draco feels like his and Potter’s lives are parallel to each other. The war makes up a big stretch of it, but then it’s little things like having the same alteration in a daily routine. They both normally shower in the morning, but today they’ve both also had a bath in the evening—if the sound of water hitting porcelain is accurate, at least. 

Draco sits back on the sofa and tucks his feet underneath him. He takes a fortifying sip of his tea to calm himself down. There isn’t such a thing as parallel lives. That would play into the belief of a greater power, and Draco doesn’t really believe in one. Sure, someone had to create the earth, but no one is up in the sky creating soul mates or parallel lives. That’s ridiculous, even if he finds the concept extremely intriguing. Draco shakes his head. The only reason he’s even _thinking_ about this is because the book he’s reading is literally about star-crossed lovers. The two men are pitted against each other in every situation, and even though the chemistry is undeniably there, they are doomed to be apart. He hopes that by the end they manage to thwart the universe—and they probably will, since it’s a book and not real life—even if it’s predictable. 

As he drains the last of his tea, Potter comes stomping back into the room. He’s in a right snit, and instantly has Draco’s attention. However, as he blows his fringe out of his eyes and flops down on the other end of the sofa, he relaxes. It’s instantaneous, and Draco can’t pick when the change happened. Potter slumps into the cushion, looking for all the world like he’s going to fall asleep right there. Draco shrugs to himself and continues reading. He loses himself in the pages and words, forgetting all about the cottage and the man next to him. 

“What are you reading?”

“Hmm?” Draco hums, not fully understanding what’s happening because of how immersed he is. 

“What are you reading?” Potter asks again. 

“Just a book,” Draco replies without thinking. “Oh! You’re awake!” He exclaims once his brain catches up. 

“Obviously,” Potter drawls. 

Draco is reminded of Severus, and is left for a second thinking back to his godfather. He shakes himself and manages to roll his eyes at Potter. 

“So… what are you reading?” Potter, seemingly wide awake again, reaches for the book. 

Draco snaps it closed. “It’s nothing.” 

Potter grunts. “Not nothing if you’re reading it.”

Draco frowns and shifts over more before reopening his book. Now the only thing Potter can see is the inconspicuous cover—a starry sky and the title “Nearly Missed Opportunities” scrawled across it—and the top of Draco’s hair. He settles into reading once again, his attention to the room dissolving into nothing. The two men are in the middle of a very public argument, and the tension between them is crackling. They both desperately want to kiss the other, yet all they can do is yell. 

“Huh!” Potter shouts in triumph as he snatches Draco’s book away. Draco rushes to get it back, blushing in embarrassment at the thought of Potter seeing what he was reading. He swipes for it, hoping to take out Potter’s eye as a prize. No such luck though. And damn, the gods love to torture him more than necessary, don’t they?

“Oooh,” Potter mocks. “A _romance_ novel!” He all but claps his hands, giggling to himself like a teenager. “Not only that, but it’s also a _gay_ romance novel!” 

Draco feels his cheeks burning, and fervently wishes that it doesn’t spread down his neck. “Yes, because I’m gay Potter. It’s not exactly a secret.” No such luck. At having the spotlight turned on himself, his skin heats all the way down to his shoulders. 

Potter whistles. “You’re gay?”

Draco snarls. “Of course I’m gay! Have you been living under a rock or something?!”

Potter frowns, but the expression is quickly wiped away. “That’s- cool.”

“I refuse to apologise for it if you have a problem with it.”

“What- oh God no! No problem!” Potter trips over his words. “No, I’m actually bisexual, so no problem with that at all.”

Hold on. This is new information. “Wait,” Draco says. “You’re not straight?”

“No…?” Potter replies. “It was all over the _Prophet_ two years ago.”

“What about the Weasley girl? Last I heard you two were going strong.”

“Nah, she’s long gone. She fell in love with Luna Lovegood.”

“Oh.” Draco pauses in his shuffling. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Potter says. “We weren’t right for each other. She’s also bi, by the way. So the relationship could have been salvaged but neither of us wanted to. We both kind of realised that she was there for the wrong reason, and we both preferred trying to find actual love than staying unhappy.”

Draco swallows, needing a second to take it all in. “You never said anything.”

“No,” Potter agrees. “I generally keep my personal life separate from my work one.” 

“If it’s any consolation, I’m no longer married either.” Draco breaks the growing silence, and watches as Potter swallows that down. 

“Greengrass, right?”

Draco nods. “Astoria Greengrass, yes.” He pauses, sighing into the cold air. “She died earlier than was expected. The doctors thought she would have had at least another couple of years.”

“Why so soon?” Potter asks. 

“Some blood curse left over from an ancestor resurfaced with her. She was doomed from the start, we just didn’t know when.”

“I’m sorry, that’s awful.” 

Draco shakes his head. “Don’t be. Our marriage was one of friendship, not love. I lost a friend, not a partner.”

Potter looks confused. “Why didn’t you love her?”

Draco chuckles darkly. “I’m gay, Potter. You _know_ I’m gay! I literally just said it, _and_ you saw me reading that trashy romance novel.” He takes a breath. “There never could be anything more than friendship. She knew that too, and she still agreed. Sometimes I wonder why…” Draco trails off. 

A beat passes, neither of them moving. The silence stretches and becomes awkward, and Draco coughs to ease the tension. “Can I have my book back?”

Potter seems to have forgotten he has it, as he practically throws it back at Draco. 

Draco instantly opens it again and continues reading, quite happy to drown out his mind with words from a different brain. The scene continues with the two men being pulled apart, one with a split lip and one with a broken nose. Draco sighs, just wanting them to manage to get together. Curse the stars. 

“I’m gonna go cook dinner,” Potter says out of nowhere. 

“Okay,” Draco responds without much thought. “Why are you telling me?” He adds when his brain leaves the pages of his book. 

“I was going to offer to cook for you, but I guess I have my answer.” Potter huffs and walks over to the kitchen. 

“I can cook for myself thanks!” Draco retorts. 

“I know, but it just doesn’t make sense that we both cook something ten minutes apart, when I could just cook a bigger portion.” Potter shrugs without turning back to face Draco. He moves about, pulling things out of cupboards. 

“...what are you making?” Draco asks when his curiosity gets the best of him. 

Potter throws a smug smile over his shoulder. “Indian.”

Draco’s mouth falls open. Curse Potter. He _knows_ that Draco likes Indian _anything_ from seeing him eat it for practically three years straight. There’s also the added bonus that Potter has basically mastered it, flaunting it around Draco at least once a week. 

Draco pinches the bridge of his nose. “Fine.”

“No need to sound so annoyed about it,” Potter chuckles. 

Draco huffs but stands to help. 

*~*~*~

A little while later, the cottage is filled with the delicious smell of spices. Potter never actually told Draco what they were making beyond ‘Indian’ but it’s clearly a Tikka Masala—stereotypical maybe, but Draco’s absolute favourite. His stomach grumbles as it’s plated up, and he pours them a glass of wine each. He charms the glasses to follow them into the living room, and sets them down on the Transfigured coffee table. Potter places the bowls next to the glasses and flops down on the sofa. Draco is very cautious to sit as far away as possible, and picks up his bowl. 

They eat in silence, neither daring to speak. It’s odd, isn’t it? To sit and eat dinner with the man who has been your rival for twelve years? Draco thinks it should, but it doesn’t feel that strange. Sure, they still get on each other’s nerves—often deliberately—but it isn’t quite the same as when they were fifteen. Now it feels more relaxed, more like a force of habit than anything else. They’ve worked together for three years after all, even if their bosses both swear they aren’t being repeatedly paired up on purpose. Draco shakes his head, remembering when Stinton swore to him that it was a coincidence. Draco never believed her. Sure, it could just be that they are the best at their respective jobs, but he doesn’t think that’s it. Robards and Stinton want them to get over themselves and possibly even become _friends._ Draco shudders at the thought of being Potter’s friend. It seems impossible, what with all of their messy history. No, this isn’t being friendly. This is being practical. This is utilising time in the best possible way, and seeking human contact when isolated. 

A snore wrenches Draco’s thoughts away. When he turns his head, he sees Potter’s own head thrown back and his chest rising and falling in sleep. The bowl is scraped clean, and the wine is drained. Draco scoffs to himself. One doesn’t just knock back wine like Potter must have done to have finished it already. He shakes his head to himself but stands all the same. He flicks his wand and sends Potter’s dish and glass into the kitchen to be cleaned. Happy when things go flying in the kitchen to get to work, Draco repositions Potter. There’s no point sleeping like that; he’d wake up with the stiffest neck imaginable. Draco shifts Potter so he’s lying on his side, removes his glasses, and throws a thick blanket over him. The nights are bitterly cold after all. 

Satisfied, Draco finishes his dinner standing in the kitchen, and then sets his own dishes to be cleaned. As he walks back into the living room, he can hear the plates being thoroughly scrubbed. He smiles. He knew the charms would come in handy. Normally, he uses them when he eats alone in his flat; he didn’t want to bring any house elves from the Manor because they remind him too much of the war. His mother had insisted that he learn them, and he now knows more housework spells than anyone ought to. He has ones for not only making beds, but also for dusting velveteen curtains—which he doesn’t even _have_ so why he learned it is beyond him. Draco picks up his book from the arm of the sofa, careful not to disturb Potter, and walks towards the bedroom. He quickly brushes his teeth and goes through his night routine—which isn’t quite as long as the morning one, but is still too long if he’s being honest—and makes his way to the bed, intending to read well into the night.


	4. Chapter 4

  
  
[Christmas tree in a living room at night, lit up in gold and red]

**December 4th, 2003 - Thursday**

Harry is sick of sleeping on the couch. After three nights on it, it’s beginning to become unbearable. His neck is stiff, his back aches, and it’s really not fair that _Malfoy_ gets the bed when _Harry’s_ the one who saved the world. Yes, he feels ashamed of himself for even thinking of using that as an argument, but other people expect him to do it all the time. It’s irrelevant that they jump to that conclusion before he can open his mouth and say something totally different. It’s irrelevant that he despises being treated like the poster-boy of the war when there were so many people who fought and gave their lives, not just him. It’s irrelevant that whenever he’s forced to use it, he feels guilty for weeks. No. Malfoy needs to get what’s coming for him, and Harry is sick of the couch!

He leaps up and starts pacing, his feet dragging behind him noisily and his hand gripping the wand in his pocket. He sends the cushions and his blanket back into order with a quick spell, straightening them out and making it look presentable. Harry may not be bothered to make his bed—or couch, in this case—but he isn’t so lazy as to not get his magic to do it for him. Unlike Ron. His heart clenches at the thought of his friend. It’s Thursday. He’d normally have seen him four times by now, each meeting at either the pub, or Hermione and Ron’s cozy little house. Harry sighs, running his hands through his hair. It sucks, being so far away from the people you care about and having no way of contacting them. Harry can only hope that they find a way out of this soon. If not Malfoy and him, then maybe Hermione might be able to help from the other side of this mess. 

Foot-steps tap on the floor, and Malfoy comes walking into view. His normally neat hair is a mess on his head, blond strands everywhere as if he’s been tossing and turning all night. The purple and blue circles under his eyes confirm Harry’s suspicion, and he is suddenly very concerned. Malfoy rarely has trouble sleeping, a fact Harry has been very thankful for over the years. He supposed it’s reasonable given their current situation, but it still isn’t normal. 

“Top of the morning to you,” Malfoy grumbles out. His voice is rougher than usual, muffled by disuse throughout the night. 

“Bottom of the morning to you,” Harry replies, hoping to convey just how peeved he is at Malfoy about the couch thing. 

He only shakes his head. “That’s not the saying,” he says. “What’s got your wand in a knot?” He adds when Malfoy looks up at Harry for the first time as he shuffles into the kitchen. 

Harry silently thanks the Ferret for giving him an opening, and plunges in without a second thought. “I’m not sleeping on the couch again.”

Malfoy pauses with a cupboard door hanging open. “What do you mean?” 

“I mean that I’m sleeping in the bed tonight, whether you like it or not.”

“No you aren’t. That’s where I sleep, don’t be ridiculous.” Malfoy goes back to rummaging through the cupboard for who-knows-what, noisily shuffling things about. 

“I’m not. I have a crick in my neck and my back is killing me. Malfoy, I can’t keep sleeping there.” Harry can hear that he’s growing a bit desperate, and he hopes Malfoy gives in easily for once. 

“So Transfigure it into a bed.”

Harry’s jaw drops open. He hadn’t thought of that. How on earth hadn’t he thought of that? But then he remembers why he hadn’t. “I’m bollocks at Transfiguration.”

Malfoy shrugs. “Not my problem.”

“Well it is, because I’ll be sleeping with you tonight unless you can come up with something better.” 

Malfoy splutters, pink creeping down his face and below his collar. “Wh- what?” He breathes. 

“I’ll be sleeping with- Oh! No! Not like that! Gross, no. Just- just in the same bed!” Harry rushes to correct himself, feeling his own skin heat. 

“Right,” Malfoy manages after a second. “Sorry, I just- I don’t know, I’m used to people saying things like that to me, and I just didn’t expect to hear _you_ say it.” He passes it off with a laugh, but Harry isn’t quite sure it works the way he wanted it to. 

Harry swallows hard, trying to shove the inappropriate image of a disheveled Malfoy down. “What do you mean by that?” 

Malfoy sighs, a put upon expression on his face. He rubs the back of his neck uncomfortably. “Men often threaten to sleep with me if I don’t do whatever it is they want me to do.”

Harry’s mouth drops open. “That’s not okay!” he splutters. “People can’t go around trying to shag you against your will! That’s rape!”

“Who said it was against my will Potter?” Malfoy quips. 

Harry feels his cheeks heating. “It’s just, the way you said it-”

“No,” Malfoy sighs. “You’re right. It’s never what I want, but what can I do? It’s my choice to go to bad clubs and try to take someone home. Of course I attract the wrong attention sometimes.”

Harry blushes fiercely, feeling his skin boil. 

“Oh don’t look like that. You can’t tell me you’ve never slept with a stranger.”

“Well, I-I, I’m not in the habit of it, no.”

“But you have?”

“I have,” Harry sighs. “I don’t talk about it though.”

“Why not? Are Gryffindors all prudes?”

Harry scowls. “No. I’d just prefer to keep that to myself rather than shout it from the rooftops.” With a jolt he remembers how this line of conversation started. “And just because you try to pull at clubs, it doesn’t mean men can take advantage of you. Seriously Malfoy.”

Malfoy dismisses it with a wave of his hand. “Most of the time they just want me to buy them a drink. I do it without a second thought. If it’s not that they’re after then it’s usually a blowjob, and it never lasts very long.”

Harry sighs. Malfoy is never going to get it. Even if it doesn’t affect _him_ very much, it could be deeply damaging to somebody else. Deciding to drop it for now—but keeping it very much in mind for later—he lapses into silence. 

“Look at us. Talking in the kitchen about our awkward lives like a couple of sad, middle-aged men.” Malfoy sounds sour, and Harry pulls his attention back in. 

“Yes, well.” Harry doesn’t know how to finish the sentence. What else is there to say? 

“Fine,” Malfoy speaks up as he turns on the stove. “We can sleep in rotations. You can have the bed tonight, but I’m back in it on Friday.” 

Harry laughs. He’d totally forgotten how this conversation had originally started. “Thanks Malfoy.” He claps the Ferret on the back and turns away, heading for a shower. 

*~*~*~

The wall explodes, sending plaster and dust everywhere. Harry scrabbles to cover his ears and turn his back, berating himself for not putting any charms up. It’s all well and good to go about removing walls to look for signs of tampering, but he could at least have been somewhat prepared. Instead, he’s standing in the living room in grey sweatpants and a dark purple, Muggle hoodie, brandishing his wand about and deliberately exploding walls without any form of protection. The epitome of stupid, really. 

Harry turns back around and kneels before the damage. He starts rummaging through the rubble, looking for anything that seems out of place or different in some way. He turns plaster over and examines it from every angle. He smashes bricks further, looking for any cavities to hold something, any drawings that could be runes. The only thing he’s found when he’s finished is dust and plaster. Sighing, Harry backs away and waves his wand in a shape resembling the letter ‘a’, and he watches as the bits of wall pick themselves up and reassemble into a wall. He runs his hand through his hair and turns to face the next wall. As an Auror, Harry’s had a lot of practise doing this. Most of his coworkers use more gentle spells to probe the walls, but since Malfoy has already checked for tampering he’s probably used those ones already. It’s not that Harry doesn’t trust his competency, rather that he’d like to see the proof for himself. So here he is, blowing up walls to make sure the Ferret didn’t miss anything. 

This time, Harry has the presence of mind to protect his ears and eyes, and when the plaster goes flying he isn’t hit by anything. Smiling faintly to himself, he treads carefully through the wreckage towards the base of the wall. Typically, signs of malintent and tampering show up where the wall connects to other surfaces—namely, the floor, the ceiling, or other walls—and is the first place to be checked. When Harry crouches down and sits back on his haunches, he reaches forward to move the rubble out of the way. A piece of rough brick rubs against his hand, and a sharp sting blooms across his palm. Harry curses loudly and pulls back his hand. He looks it over, sighing at his lack of attention. There’s a long red gash stretching from the base of his index finger down to the end of his palm in a diagonal line. Harry may have remembered to protect his ears and eyes, but he hadn’t cast a Protego over the rest of his body. 

Harry wipes his bloody hand against his sweatpants and proceeds to quickly heal it. He’s had plenty of experience handling minor cuts and injuries, and while it is entirely possible that it could scar, it shouldn’t become infected or continue bleeding over everything. Harry shakes his head at himself and casts a shield charm, before he leans forward again to continue his work. He examines the rubble, eyes sharp and steady. When he hasn’t come up with anything, he rocks back and stands up slowly. His legs feel unsteady beneath him, and he shakes them out harshly. He pulls his wand from his hoodie pocket and spells the wall back together. 

“What the fuck are you doing?!” 

Harry sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’m looking for any evidence of wards or enchantments that are preventing us from leaving.” He makes sure to keep his voice professional and light, even though he knows Malfoy won’t buy it for even a second. 

“Sure you are,” comes the quick response.

Harry looks up at him for the first time this afternoon, and sees Malfoy with his hair pulled in every which direction and lines pressed into his forearms. His eyes glance at Malfoy’s pale hands and finds them covered in various colours of ink and paint. 

“I thought I’d told you that I’ve already looked. Why are you exploding walls?” Malfoy asks exasperatedly. 

Harry rolls his eyes. “Why are you such a mess?” He counters. 

Malfoy flushes, his pale skin turning steadily pink. “None of your business.”

“No, I think it is.” Harry _needs_ to know. He’s never seen Malfoy with splotches of colour and black paint, but it looks… Hell, it looks _good._

Malfoy swallows, and Harry watches his Adam’s apple bob. “I was painting.” 

“Cool,” Harry replies, desperately trying to sound normal and unaffected by Malfoy covered in ink. “I’m destroying walls and trying to find a way back to London.”

“But _why_? I’ve already looked, and I can promise you there isn’t anything in the walls.”

Harry sighs. “Iwantedtomakesureyouhadntmissedanything.”

“Sorry, what?” 

He sighs again. “I wanted to make sure you hadn’t missed anything.”

“Why would I have missed anything? Do you not think I scoured each wall, looking for any possibility?” Malfoy snaps. He’s rapidly becoming annoyed again. 

“Fine, I’ll stop,” Harry gives in. He could never stand seeing Malfoy so visibly upset or temperamental. Not that he’d tell anyone; or that he really understands why himself.

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

“Huh, maybe I should’ve tried earlier,” Malfoy teases. 

Harry rolls his eyes but doesn’t say anything. Instead, he slides his wand into his hoodie pocket again—only just realising that he had been waving it around like an inexperienced eleven year old—and moves over to the couch. He flops down on one end and wordlessly lights the fire. Orange flames flicker into life, warmth filling the little room quickly. Without a word, Malfoy sits down on the opposite end of the couch and pulls a book out from who-knows-where. 

They sit in silence for a while, Harry just staring into the fire and watching the flames dance. Every so often, a flame will lick forward and try to escape the grate. Harry always reaches his hand forward, feeling the warmth surround his skin for a second before pulling away. He may be fine with seeing fire float around his hand, but he does not want to tempt fate like that for any longer than a second. Each time he removes his hand, he hears Malfoy tut under his breath. He clearly doesn’t approve of Harry nearly burning his skin away, but that isn’t going to stop him. 

“What were you painting?” Harry mindlessly asks after about an hour of quiet. 

Malfoy takes a second to respond. “A narcissus flower.”

Harry feels his eyes widen at the honest answer, and he avoids Malfoy’s gaze. “That’s, lovely.”

Malfoy scoffs. “I’d normally be shopping for Christmas presents by now, but since I’m _here_ I haven’t exactly had the time.”

“Already?” Harry asks. “Christmas isn’t for another like, twenty one days though.”

“I know,” Malfoy answers quietly. “I just, I want to make sure all my presents are perfect. That isn’t possible if you leave it until the last week.”

Harry nods. “Yeah, the stores have been mostly emptied by that point.”

“Oh no,” Malfoy says. “That sounds like you know from experience.”

Harry laughs. “Yeah. I never have time so I always leave it until the weekend before.”

Malfoy’s sigh fills the silence. “Well, I figured I might as well try to do something, so I can still give some gifts this year. I’m decent at art—I like anything visual, really—so I thought I might make people something instead of buying them things.”

“That’s thoughtful,” Harry murmurs. His presents aren’t _bad_ per se, but they aren’t as nice as Malfoy’s. He normally just gets people things he knows they need, or things that remind him of them. He’s never really gotten the hang of presents, but no one seems to mind what he gives them. He doesn’t really worry about getting the ‘perfect present’ anymore, instead trying to get something he knows they’ll appreciate. Except Teddy. Harry tries extra hard with his godson, wanting to give him hints of the childhood Harry missed out on. Teddy loves Harry, and it would be so unfair if his presents weren’t perfect. It’s his fifth Christmas, and Harry hasn’t missed a single one. His heart clenches at the thought of not being there for him and Andromeda this year. 

He and Malfoy lapse into silence again, and Harry stands suddenly. Malfoy doesn’t ask, so Harry doesn’t give him an explanation. He walks into the kitchen and starts opening drawers at random. He’s sure he saw a Muggle notepad and pen somewhere yesterday, he just needs to find it. The drawers rattle and creak, and things get in the way of him sliding them closed properly more than once. By the time he’s beginning to lose his mind, he’s becoming quite tired. Feeling like screaming, he begins opening them all again. In the very first drawer he checked, sits exactly what he is after. He groans in frustration and picks up the notepad and pen. Not even trying to be mature, Harry slams the drawer shut and makes his way back toward the couch. 

He flops down on his self-designated side and flips through the pages. It looks brand new, with crisp pages and no trace of ink anywhere. More confused than ever about what exactly this cottage is, he turns back to the front page and starts drawing lines down the paper. Hermione has taught him multiple ways of dealing with his thoughts, but this is by far the most effective. After his insistence of not going to therapy, she took it into her own hands to give him advice. One of the methods she told him about was to write down every feeling and thought. She said that things often feel less daunting when written plainly in front of you. Harry agreed after thinking back to when he found Sirius’ diaries, and she showed him how to set up the page.

First, she said to rule a line down the middle of a piece of paper, and give each half the heading of ‘thoughts’ or ‘feelings’. She also mentioned that if a third category feels important then you can rule another line down the bottom to cut the page into thirds. Usually Harry adds ‘work’ as that’s what the majority of his life is organised around, and it allows everything related to Auror work to be close together instead of spread out. Hermione’s next step is to literally just fill the page up with dot points. They don’t have to be coherent or in any sort of order, just noting every single thing down. A second page is sometimes necessary, and she always told Harry that if he needed to he should just do it, no overthinking. Then, she instructed Harry to rule up yet another page. This time though, she said it was best to use full sentences and to structure it properly. Everything makes more sense and feels less intimidating when laid out like this. It turns entire problems into one sentence on a page. Harry hasn’t been the same since Hermione taught him this. 

So that’s what he does. He freehands a line down the middle of the first piece of paper, and gives them the appropriate headings. On the left is ‘thoughts’, leaving the right for ‘feelings’. Drumming his fingers on his lap, he begins jotting notes down. He mentions being stuck in the cottage, missing work and his friends, worrying about missing Christmas all together—or never managing to go back to London at all. He worries about missing the Granger-Weasley Christmas Tree Lighting event, something he’s not missed _once_ before. Last year, the tree was decorated with red tinsel and golden lights; this year it’s meant to be majestic, according to Hermione, but he has no idea what it is yet. 

Notes about Malfoy start piling up too, and Harry feels like he’s back in Sixth Year with an unhealthy obsession. Except now they’ve worked together for years, and he is obsessed in a totally different way. In Sixth Year, he was sure Malfoy was up to something. Yes, he might have gone to the extreme, and yes everyone thought he had a crush on Malfoy, but he didn’t. Now though, the Ferret is annoyingly fit and _very_ good at his job. At least he’s still snappish and annoying, making it easier to stay distant. Harry doesn’t have a crush on the man, he’s just noticed that he looks alright these days. That’s all. 

After writing down every thought and emotion, Harry tears the page out and starts placing small numbers next to the dot points. He finds it useful for the next step, so that he can cross the points out as he goes without having to order them while he’s trying to write. He rules up a second page and begins expanding his three-word-sentences, allowing his hand to move quickly and his mind to whir. 

“What are you doing?” 

Harry closes his eyes, willing himself to be patient. It’s just that sometimes, Malfoy has the curiosity of a three year old. He’s surprised it took this long, really. “Writing.”

“Writing what?” Malfoy counters. 

“Words.” 

Malfoy glares. “I told you what I’d painted.” His mouth curves into an almost-pout, and Harry snaps. 

“It’s none of your business!” 

Malfoy throws his hands up, his book falling onto his thighs. “Sorry, it’s just that it’s not even full sentences, so it can’t be anything official, and I’ve never seen you write for fun.”

Harry sighs. “That’s because it isn’t official. I’m doing something ‘Mione told me to do sometimes.” At the look on Malfoy’s face, he adds, “That’s all you’re getting.” 

Malfoy actually does pout now, and Harry has to turn away. “Ok then,” Malfoy reluctantly says. “I’m going to make myself a tea, do you want one?”

Harry pauses. “Are you actually offering?”

“I am, but I’ll revoke it if you don’t answer soon.”

“Fine. I’ll take a chamomile tea, thanks.”

Malfoy scoffs. “Really?”

“Yeah? What’s wrong with that?”

Malfoy shakes his head but doesn’t say anything, just gets up and moves towards the kitchen. 

By the time Harry’s finished, he has another two sheets of paper in front of him and a very sore hand. He stretches it out slowly, his half-full mug sitting carefully on his lap. Malfoy had handed it to him half an hour ago, carefully averting his eyes from Harry’s writing. As much as he may put up a cold and unattached exterior, he clearly doesn’t want to get on Harry’s nerves too much. He appreciates it, and takes a thoughtful sip of his tea. It’s still slightly too hot, and he curses as the water burns his tongue. Malfoy makes a noise and when Harry looks up, Malfoy’s thumb is resting against his bottom lip and all of his attention is on his book. Probably another romance novel. Harry tries hard to not think about the way he looks like this, and turns his attention towards his tea. He pulls his wand out of his hoodie pocket once again and spells the chamomile-infused water slightly cooler. This time when Harry takes a sip, his tongue is blissfully unburned. 

*~*~*~

Malfoy’s grinning at his book like a loon. It’s very distracting. Not that Harry’s really trying to do anything, mind you. He’s just sitting on the couch, staring into the flames of the fire and contemplating life. Well, that’s what he'd like to be doing, but instead all he can focus on is Malfoy. Malfoy, whose head is buried inside his book and is smiling at whatever he's reading. Harry’s never seen him so openly enjoying something; it's unsettling. And all that he can think about. 

Without another thought, Harry lunges onto Malfoy’s side of the couch and rips his book out of his hands. Malfoy yelps at the attack and instinctively kicks his legs out. He shouts something absurd that Harry doesn’t quite catch, and claws at his arm. 

“Give that back you bitch!” Malfoy demands. 

“Oh no. I was just called a bitch! What ever will I do?” Harry mocks. 

Malfoy snarls. “Give. The fucking book. Back.”

“What will you do if I don’t?”

Scowling, Malfoy drags his nails over Harry’s arm. “Scratch all your skin off.”

“I’d like to see you try,” Harry quips. 

Malfoy goes silent for a moment, and then hurriedly sits back in his seat. Harry’s brows furrow in confusion, and then rise again when he gets an idea.

He opens the book to the page Malfoy was reading and quickly scans it. It features two men walking down the beach, talking about destiny and cursing the stars. They appear happy, if somewhat disbelieving. Harry holds the book in front of him and sees that Draco’s almost at the end. Smirking, he begins to read the page out loud. 

“‘Callum and Ryan walk down the beach, their toes squishing into the sand beneath them. Their hands entangle and clasp together as they stare at the sunset, and Ryan can’t believe they finally have this.’ Jesus, this is so awful Malfoy. It’s not even written well!” Harry teases. Malfoy starts to argue, but Harry cuts him off. “‘He turns to Ryan and looks into his eyes, seeing where his future is supposed to be reflected in the green of Ryan’s iris. He opens his mouth to say something, but Ryan closes his mouth over Callum’s.’ This is so trashy Malfoy.” 

Malfoy harrumphs. “Just because it isn’t to your taste doesn’t mean it’s bad.”

“True,” Harry agrees after some consideration. He feels kind of bad for teasing Malfoy about the shit he’s reading, even though it _is_ shit. At least he _actually_ reads, unlike Harry. The most Harry ever reads is the Quidditch section of the _Prophet_ , and that’s only when Hermione removes it from the rest of the paper for him.

“Are you done making fun of me?” Malfoy asks. 

Harry holds his hands up in surrender. “Yeah, I think so.”

Malfoy snatches the book back and settles in to read again. Harry doesn’t move his eyes away though, staying fixed on the man next to him. They’re next to each other. They aren’t on opposite sides of the couch anymore. Harry is so close to Malfoy that he can feel heat radiating off of him. It’s dizzying, and all Harry wants to do is move closer. Though he doesn’t know where this urge has come from. It’s probably just because he hasn’t had any form of physical contact since the start of Monday. Yeah. That has to be it. With that thought in mind, Harry does the opposite of what his brain is screaming at him to do. He shuffles back over to his side, and away from Malfoy.

*~*~*~

Harry looks over to his left a while later and sees Malfoy with his head tipped back over the headrest of the couch. His book is lying half open in his lap, his page only saved thanks to one cover being wedged between his thighs. The other is hanging off and brushing the side of the couch. Harry watches his chest rise and fall with his breath, and decides that if it’s late enough for Malfoy to sleep, then it is for him too. He stands up and charms his mug to float into the kitchen; listens as it falls into the sink with a clink. He’ll wash up tomorrow morning, but for now it can sit there. It’s only tea anyway. Harry then turns his attention to Malfoy and the way he’s sitting. That won’t do at all. He’ll wake up with some serious pain in the morning if he stays lying like that. Harry hates the thought of how friendly and domestic the notion is, but he has to rearrange him. He can’t leave the Ferret like this. Sighing, he begins to slowly move Malfoy’s body, careful not to disturb him or wake him up.

He starts by tipping his head back up so his spine is straight again, and then twists him slightly so he can fit properly on the couch. He then picks the book up off Malfoy’s lap and is careful to keep it on the same page as he places it on the coffee table next to his wand. Malfoy’s legs are next, and Harry picks them up off the floor and swivels them onto the cushions. He takes his shoes off and then pulls the blanket up over the sleeping body. Watching as Malfoy shuffles around in his sleep to get comfortable again, Harry feels his heart clench. Malfoy _nuzzles_ into the pillow beneath his head, turning to nose at it. Harry gasps and then slaps a hand over his mouth. He swallows dryly and begins to creep away. He makes it into the hallway before realising that he’d left his papers there. Cursing, he tiptoes back into the living room. 

Malfoy has moved around and readjusted the blanket so that it’s pulled tightly over his shoulders, his platinum hair the only visible part of him. He is murmuring something in his sleep, and Harry tries very hard to block it out as he moves to collect his paper and pen. As he reaches over to pick it up from next to Malfoy’s head though, he hears what’s being said. Kind of. Most of it is illegible, and the parts that he does hear definitely don’t make sense in a sentence. But he hears one word over and over again. 

“ _Harry_ ,” Malfoy murmurs. 

Harry feels the life drain out of him and he freezes. Why was Malfoy saying his name? His given name, no less. He shakes his head. Maybe Malfoy knows a different Harry? But no, it wasn’t really that popular of a name in the 1980s. Sure, there’s always the _possibility_ , but it isn’t very likely. That means Malfoy’s talking about him. Harry isn’t sure how to feel about that. If he’s whispering it in his sleep, he’s probably dreaming about him too. Shaking off the feeling of unease and confusion, Harry grabs the papers and walks into the bedroom for the first time since Monday. 

The bedroom is quite pretty, really. There is a warm light thrown around the room by a pendant, and with the fire blazing, it’s the perfect temperature. Harry doesn’t know how the fire was started, since no one has been in here for hours, but he’s glad for it. Maybe the house is sentient after all? Regardless, the room is warm and cozy. Harry eyes the bed and wants to dive onto it. So he does. He lands on top of one of the rose gold pillows, and buries his face into it. It smells like Malfoy. Harry reels back, embarrassed for not having thought of this before. Pulling his wand out, he sends cleaning charms through all of the linen. He watches as everything shakes for a second before settling back down. His cleaning charms have always had that effect, and he’s never known why. Not even Hermione had been able to come up with a reason. 

Smiling at the thought of his friend, he falls back onto the bed again. He sees why Malfoy was in no rush to leave the room. The bed is so large and comfortable it’s crazy. Harry tugs his hoodie and socks off and slides under the white sheets. It’s really warm too. Sighing contentedly, Harry snuggles under the blankets and tries to get some good sleep for the first night since Sunday. 


	5. Chapter 5

[Lots of gingerbread men with white outlines, and red and green buttons/bow ties]

**December 5th, 2003 - Friday**

Draco is sore, tired, and grumpy. The sofa beneath him shifts as he moves slightly, and he curses under his breath. His spine cracks loudly, his eyes squeezing shut. He groans and makes to sit up; his spinning head prevents him doing so, and he instantly falls back down instead. Sighing, Draco runs a hand through his sleep-mussed hair and finds it an absolute mess. It’s more suitable to Potter than himself. Grumbling and fussing, he shifts to sit again. The world spins once more, but this time he throws an arm out and catches himself on the back of the sofa. 

Draco opens his eyes. It’s still dark, and when he turns to look out the window he finds the sky pitch black. What bloody time is it?! He slides his arms down the back of the sofa and searches around for his wand, finding it on the coffee table he’d Transfigured two days ago. Casting a Tempus and scowling when it returns as five am, Draco flops himself back down onto the sofa. There’s no sense in getting up so early, so he isn’t going to. As he pulls the blanket up over his shoulders again, he halts. Where did the blanket come from? He definitely hadn’t had it last night… He’d clearly fallen asleep on the sofa, but he couldn’t remember ever actually getting ready for bed. Normally he would have gone through an entire night routine, but he has no recollection of that from the previous night. 

It hits him like a train. Potter. The insufferable git had removed Draco’s shoes—as he’s now noticed them stacked neatly at the end of the sofa, and he definitely didn’t take them off himself—and conjured him a blanket and a pillow. The pillow smells like Potter. Maybe he didn’t conjure it for Draco, but instead just gave him the one he’s been using this entire time. Scrunching his nose up at the thought of sleeping with Potter’s pillow, he finds himself suddenly wide awake and restless. No getting back to sleep now. Sighing, he throws the blanket off and stands up, tucking his wand beneath a cushion for safe keeping. He stretches his back out, simultaneously delighting and cringing at the cracks, and pads out of the living room down the corridor. He needs a showe— Shit. All of his clothes are in the bedroom. The bedroom which Potter is currently sleeping in. Fuck everything. Cursing the gods for the very first time this morning, he tiptoes towards the far door at the end of the hallway.

Should he really do this? He thinks he should—he needs his clothes after all—yet something is stopping him. It feels like a disturbance of privacy. Potter hadn’t ever entered the bedroom while Draco was in it, not that he’s aware of, at least. To do so now seems strange, even if it is just to get his own clothes. Swallowing the nagging feeling down and gently pushing the door open, Draco pokes his head through the small gap. Potter is lying on top of the covers, turned onto his side and sleeping soundly. Exhaling in relief that the man lying there is asleep and will therefore have no recollection of this, Draco sneaks into the room. 

Upon closer inspection, Draco realises that Potter is only wearing the pair of sweatpants he’d had on yesterday. Draco shivers at the sight of him shirtless in nothing but sweatpants—the idiot must be freezing! He doesn’t really know why, but the realisation of Potter’s near-nakedness makes him feel even more off kilter. He pushes through the bedroom, trying to keep as quiet as possible. He arrives at the cupboard he’d found his clothes in—either an exact replica of his usual closet or his actual closet having been spelled here somehow—and tugs the doors open. They pull out with a soft swooshing sound across the rug, and Draco nervously looks over his shoulder. Potter is still sleeping, blissfully unaware of the intrusion. He flicks through the clothes before choosing a simple but crisp black button down and a pair of pale blue Muggle jeans. 

Having lived in Muggle London for quite a while, he is very used to not only blending in, but actually wearing their clothes as a preference over the restricting wizarding robes. He also happens to frequent their clubs quite often, so if his jeans are all slightly too tight, it’s not exactly his fault. They work really well for taking Muggles home, and they make his arse look amazing. Mind you, they also attract a lot of unwanted attention. Sighing but removing the clothes from the cupboard anyway, he pushes the doors shut. Once they’ve clicked into place, he pads quietly from the room and into the bathroom. If he looks back at Potter now sprawled out on the bed, and if he allows his eyes to roam the man’s lightly muscled chest for a second or two, what does that really matter? No one but him and the gods he so hates will know.

*~*~*~

The shower water is blissfully warm, scalding hot and turning Draco’s skin pink. Showers are a much wanted reprieve in the middle of winter, the one thing that actually warms up a cold body. Blankets and cups of tea can only do so much after all. Draco’s flat back home has a beautiful bath, and he makes a habit in December and January—and let’s be real, February too—to sit submerged in the hot water and read. It’s always a pleasant experience, and it leaves him ready for the day once the chill has been removed from his bones. Today though, there is simply no time to indulge in such a feat. Draco has a lot he needs to do today, and he will have to brave the cold outside later anyway. 

He sighs and tips his head back under the jet. The water pulses onto his head, massaging its way through his hair and down his neck. He’s procrastinating leaving, he knows. It’s not his fault though. The water is so warm and the cottage is so cold. So damn cold. Draco resists the urge to curse the gods for that, but it is a close call. It’s easy to pass the blame onto someone else—especially when that ‘someone else’ doesn’t even exist—but he can’t help it sometimes. 

Draco runs his hands through his hair and scrubs the soap off his legs, doing anything to delay the inevitable. He reaches for the shower knobs next to him and turns them off towards the wall, the water slowly cutting off. Draco shivers in the cold and slides open the glass door. His hand pats around, feeling for the towel he’d picked out. Today it’s a dusty pink, the kind you see in the sunset. He grabs a hold of it and wraps it around his waist before stepping out of the shower and onto cold tiles. 

After drying himself off, going through his ridiculously long morning routine yet again, and getting dressed into the clothes he’d taken from the bedroom, Draco moved into the kitchen to make breakfast. Cooking is held close to his heart these days. He’s reminded of the calmness he feels each time he stands before the stove or the oven. It’s amazing, how something that he never had a part in as a child has become such a big part of his adulthood. Pushing those thoughts away, he scans the cupboards and fridge, looking for inspiration for breakfast. He decides he’ll suffer through porridge today. It’s literally freezing outside, and porridge is just the right amount of filling and hearty to last him for a while. Even if the taste and consistency is enough to have his stomach curl in on itself. 

*~*~*~

Frosty grass crunches beneath Draco’s feet, wind whistling through his hair. The sun still hasn’t risen yet, but it shouldn’t have much longer to go. It’s nearly seven thirty, and the birds are starting to rustle in their trees, beginning to wake up. There’s probably another twenty minutes or so before dawn, and Draco intends to make the most out of the day. Really, he intends to find any more clues on where they are and how to get back. He’ll take any hint at all. Even if it requires traipsing through a dark forest looking for civilisation. Forests have never been his favourite place in the world, only made worse with the war. Whenever he finds himself near one he tries to go around. They make him uncomfortable; too many memories. Too many opportunities for him to have changed something, instead of cowering in the castle or behind a tree. 

He’d left Potter a note this morning. Short and simple, telling the Saviour of the Wizarding World that Draco would be out all day exploring. Since Potter was still asleep when he left, he thought it would be courteous to give him some explanation as to the empty cottage. The note merely said ‘Potter, I’m going out to explore the surroundings. DM.” Three lines of swooping ink on a weird, squared, yellow page of thin paper. Draco thinks it’s Muggle—hell, it has to be, no wizard would write on something so small—but he hasn’t actually come across them before in the three years of living with Muggles. The fact that he rarely talks with the Muggles probably doesn’t help. There isn’t much time to write notes when he’s taking a stranger home.

Feeling oddly melancholic and shoving his hands into his coat’s pockets, he keeps his head down and walks on. It’s not like he is incapable of entering a forest. He would just rather he didn’t. He’d also like the memories to stay back, but they don’t really. Draco has sought help from many Mind Healers for this exact issue; they all told Draco that he just needed more exposure to forests, and that he needed to come to terms with his past mistakes. That may help in the long run, but Draco has never found it particularly comforting. Despite going to multiple Mind Healers, he doesn’t feel much better about the War. About his past and his many mistakes. Sometimes, it feels like he’s going to crumble under their weight. Other times he’s absolutely fine.

After a while of pushing through branches and trudging through snow that somehow managed to get beyond the thick canopy, Draco finally sees an end to the trees. He scrambles to get there as quickly as possible, nearly tripping over roots and small bushes multiple times. There’s a little pocket where the tree line dips in, but the trees never start back up again. Instead, Draco finds that he has a clear view of a little village. He smiles faintly to himself, glad to have found some form of other people. Potter must have been wrong when he said there wasn’t anything nearby. That, or the less pleasurable thought that he hid information like this from Draco. He hopes for Potter’s sake it’s the former.

Draco makes his way over to the village. He wouldn’t lay a finger on Potter. Not only would he be sent to Azkaban for harming the Saviour, but he’d also be risking their working relationship. Draco actually quite likes him, as much as he tries to deny it to everyone. The village looks gorgeous, right out of a photograph. Smiling softly, he walks up to the nearest building and finds a path down the middle of a strip of shops. They look like little local stores, people depending on them to survive. Something feels slightly off though, and he can’t put his finger on it. He can’t see any form of signage anywhere on the exterior of the building, but it is made out of red bricks and has a black roof. The black seems to come from dirt though, so what it was before is anyone’s guess. 

Still curious about the store, Draco moves up to the window. He doesn’t really want to break in—none of the lights are on, so it must not be open yet since it’s still rather early—so he instead settles for looking through the glass. The interior of the building looks neat and polished. At least, it would if it wasn’t covered in dust and looking extremely unused. It looks like it used to be a butcher. As he walks slightly to the left to get a better view through the window, Draco sees a poster. “Best Butcher, 1995”. Draco frowns, put on edge with this new information. Why would a village’s butcher have closed down? He looks around, hoping to find a person he can ask. He doesn’t. Eyebrows creasing, he turns his head towards the horizon. The sun has lifted towards the east, the sunrise staining the sky pink and orange. It’s beautiful, and he takes a second to stare at it. 

By the time he tears his eyes away, the village is covered in daylight. Still there are no people. Draco hopes that the village just likes to sleep in—it is a Friday, after all—but the longer he stands there the more he fears for the worst. A village should be bustling by now, store owners preparing for a busy day of selling, and buyers getting up early to try to get better deals. Draco runs his hand through his hair, displacing it slightly. Sighing, he pivots and faces the red bricked building again. Only this time he can see it properly. His earlier observation of unused is technically correct, but it is a big understatement. The benches and hooks are covered in spiderwebs, and there is more dust and broken glass on the tables than Draco ever thought possible. Scowling to himself at the cobwebs, he moves away from the abandoned butcher. 

Keeping up hope, he walks down the path through the centre of the village. There are many more shops, each displaying unique wares and interesting things to buy, but each is just as abandoned as the last. Draco feels a sense of unease come over his previously determined attitude. Not much would cause a village full of people to up and leave. He shudders and picks up the pace a little. He doesn’t want to be here for any longer than necessary. Even so, his eyes still roam over the buildings. There are some signs of life lingering around, despite years having passed since anyone lived here. Nothing obvious of course, just tiny details that most people would miss. Like a window that has lines etched into the glass—possibly from a child ages ago that was never fixed—or a table inside a shop with scratched legs. This village wasn’t created out of magic; there was a time people lived here. A time when it was bustling with life. 

Draco keeps his head down, not wanting to think any more about the people who would have lived here. If he spends any other second wondering, he’ll spiral. When he sees a person, or even a sign of a person, he automatically jumps to what he doesn’t know about them. Their friends and their experiences with them. Their dreams and ambitions, their memories, their family life, their nightmares and worries. It makes him feel unbalanced, to know basically nothing about the people around him. He thought being an Unspeakable might help somewhat, but it hasn’t really.

Eventually his curiosity gets the best of him. He passes a charming little building and he has to stop. It is lightly coloured with matte black accents and once-clear windows, the glass smooth even beneath the layers of dust. Draco looks at it, his heart warming. It’s a bookshop. He steps closer, hand trailing over bricks and wood, fingers tingling with repressed emotion. Bookstores always bring out the best of him, he thinks. They are warm and cozy, filled with the scent of books both new and old, and they are home to thousands of adventures and stories; glimpses into other people’s lives. He’s read nearly everything in the bookshop near his flat, and he wonders sometimes if his business is what’s keeping the old store running. 

Swallowing hard and resisting the urge to dig his nails into the pads of his fingers, Draco reaches a hand out for the door. The handle is carved from mahogany, and it’s cold under his grasp. He turns it to the left and it clicks open, unlocked. Draco inhales the cool air slowly and pushes the door forward. It slides inside with no resistance, no sign of creaking. He crosses onto the landing, treading with measured steps. There could be anything inside. Abandoned villages often hold nasty secrets, and Draco doesn’t particularly want to awaken anything by walking around carelessly. 

As he peers around the door and runs his eyes over the room, he feels his mouth fall open. It’s beautiful. Light wood makes up the many bookshelves, piling up in tall stacks all the way to the ceiling. Book covers of every material and colour fill each shelf, titles written in swirling loops visible even from a distance. Draco pauses though, not yet entering the shop. Why was it unlocked? Why didn’t the door creak or show any sign of disuse? Even with dusty windows and cold door handles, things aren’t adding up as neatly as they should. It’s almost as if someone else has been here recently. That can’t possibly be the case though, because the village is deserted. That much is all too obvious. 

Draco peels his eyes and looks around again, searching for any sign of recent domesticity. There aren’t any. No indents in carpet, no footsteps on rugs, no wet rings left over from glasses or mugs on coffee tables. Nothing gives itself away at being used recently. Not one thing is out of place. It’s too perfect. Maybe Draco’s overreacting and there’s nothing here, but that would be woefully out of character for him. He is one of the fastest Unspeakables in England, if he thinks something is off it usually is. 

Draco pulls his head back around the door, casting one last glance at the rows of books begging to be read. All he wants is to browse through them, flicking through yellowing pages and inhaling the unique scent of books. He shakes his head at his own childish lack of self control, and pulls the door back into place. It clicks closed, an echo of just a few minutes ago. When he draws his hand away back to his side, he notices the mahogany handle is now warm. He sets off again, hurried footsteps cushioned by the snow-covered pathway. 

Despite telling himself he wouldn’t linger, as Draco passes a bakery he has to stop. Sitting in the display cabinet is a batch of beautiful gingerbread men. They are gorgeously coloured, golden on the edges and soft, warm brown in the center. Draco’s stomach rumbles, and he realises he hasn’t eaten anything since breakfast. On closer inspection, the sweets are outlined in white icing, and have different coloured buttons and bow ties. They look so fucking good. Draco straightens back up and makes his way to the door. His hand wraps around the handle and he pushes the door in. It doesn’t budge. Locked. Disappointment sinks his hearts and Draco turns back to ogle the display. Only, there’s nothing there. The window is bare of sweet treats and anything remotely food related. He sighs. He’s so hungry, he hallucinated gingerbread men. Draco shakes his head and hurries down the path. 

At the end of the path there is a courtyard. It’s paved with red and white bricks, lines zig-zagging across the pavement. Draco walks up to it, a thrill of dread shivering up his spine. Something about the courtyard sets his bones on edge. He steps onto the tiles, waiting for something to happen. Nothing. Frowning and trying to shrug off any lingering feeling of unease, Draco pushes forward.

He nearly screams. Nearly shouts the gods out of the skies. There is a Vanishing Cabinet. A fucking, honest to Merlin, Vanishing Cabinet, in the same beechwood and purple. The silver handles glints in the early morning sun. How the hell did Potter miss this? He can’t have. He must have seen this, and chosen not to tell him. Furious, Draco paces right up to it. At the last minute though, he halts. If it is indeed the same Cabinet, if he touches it he could find himself anywhere. But then again, if it’s the other Cabinet in the set… then he’d get back to London. Surely Potter would have tried…? But if he did he wouldn’t still be here. Sighing, Draco realises that the only way to make sure is to test it.

Cautiously, he reaches out a cold hand to the door handle. The silver burns his hand in the freezing air, but he grits his teeth. He’s still in the courtyard, so it can’t be activated through the handle. Pursing his lips, Draco turns the handle and tugs it open. The door slides out smoothly, the sound of wood against wood is pleasant and homely. When Draco opens his eyes—he hadn’t realised they’d closed—he finds himself still in the courtyard. This time he does curse the gods. They deserve it, he thinks. They’ve put him in this exact scenario, probably deliberately, and Draco thinks he’s very much in the right to be angry with them. Breathing heavily in his anger, he runs his eyes over the inside of the Vanishing Cabinet. 

The inside is just as neat as the exterior, all smooth and perfect. It must have taken the creator ages, as magic simply can not produce something like this. He scans the wood, looking for any inconsistencies. There don’t appear to be any, but it is quite a large Cabinet, and is rather dark despite the daylight. Throwing caution to the wind, Draco reaches a hand inside and wishes for the best. His skin bumps against the bare wood of the Cabinet. For a heart stopping second, Draco waits for something to happen. Waits for the feeling of tumbling through the sky. When it doesn’t happen, he nearly falls over in his shock. Nearly. He manages to stay upright, if only because his hand is inside the damned Cabinet. 

Draco blinks. Moves his hand. It brushes against the wood within, and nothing changes. Eyebrows furrowed, he begins to move with purpose. Now he is feeling for something, anything really, whereas before he’d just kind of held his breath. It’s nerve racking, having your hand wedged into something that could kill you. Except this time it shows no sign of murderous thoughts or tendencies. Draco doesn’t know whether to jump in joy at the fact he’s alive, or to fall to the ground with the fact that he’s still here. In the middle of nowhere. He freezes. Moves his hand. It’s hitting something soft, knocking into it. What could possibly be in there that’s soft and warm? It’s the middle of winter, in some abandoned village. Draco shifts his hand slightly and curls his fingers around it. 

When he pulls it out of the cupboard and into the daylight, he nearly laughs; it is an actual struggle not to. There is a tiny piece of thin cotton in his palm, purple and silver just like the Cabinet. It doesn’t mean a single thing to him, aside from the obvious fact of the same colours. Why would there be a random, coloured piece of cotton sitting in a Vanishing Cabinet? He goes through the list of strange circumstances and pieces of evidence, and ranks this as number one. A single sheet of extremely soft cotton, dyed to resemble the broken Vanishing Cabinet. He almost laughs again. Draco mentally shakes himself. He needs to get a grip. The cotton has to be something, possibly even groundbreaking evidence. Possibly vital to getting himself—and Potter, he supposes—out of this weird place alive. Draco takes a deep, calming breath and tucks the material carefully into his coat pocket for safe keeping. Then he turns tail and runs back to the forest. 

Draco needs to get back to the cottage. He needs to tell Potter about this advancement. About the random piece of dyed cotton that simply has to mean something. Potter might know something about it. He’s the reason they’re here in the first place, after all. Draco runs, seeing the ground fly beneath his feet yet not taking anything in. The world blurs around him, so strong is his intent to get to Potter and explain everything to someone other than himself. If anyone can help get them out of here, it’s the idiot he’s stuck with. Briefly, he notes that he’s finally entered the forest. The ground is softer but fuller, the sky suddenly blocked with heavy branches. That thought leaves as quickly as it arrived, and Draco only knows the ducking and swerving needed to run through the trees. He bends below branches that would otherwise slap him in the face, and he skids around trees. Multiple times he almost slips on the still-icy ground, but he always manages to somehow catch himself. 

He jumps over a particularly nasty log, and lands on the other side. Except he doesn’t. He keeps falling down, his heart plummeting behind a second afterwards. He hits the ground hard. 

“Ugh, shit.” Draco can’t move, stars bursting behind his eyes and pain blooming beneath his skin. He shudders and spasms, his muscles still moving as if he’s running through a forest. Slowly, his heartbeat calms down to normal and the pain recedes a bit. He only sits up when the world stops spinning, and even then it starts up again almost instantly. If he thought he was sore when he woke up this morning on the sofa, he is now in a much worse condition. He grumbles and struggles to sit up again. 

The first thing Draco sees is dirt. Solid walls of dirt the whole way around him. When he turns his gaze skywards he finds nothing but tree branches far above him. He rubs his head gingerly; he must have knocked it quite hard with the fall. When the ache starts to subside a bit, he looks around himself again. Now that he’s more focused—even though he can still feel his pulse in his thigh and he’s sure his arm has a nasty gash—he spots things he hadn’t seen before. Like the broken netting covered in leaves, dangling down the top half of the hole. It must have been a trap for something. For what though? And who would have set it, considering the village has been empty for years? He shakes his head but instantly regrets it as pain blooms again. Turning his head to the side, Draco also notices a rather strange sight. 

There is what looks to be a tap and faucet sticking out of one of the dirt walls. Not only is there that, but there also appears to be a small storage of food. There seems to be a couple of green apples, a bowl of cereals and oats, and a few carrots. Draco scowls, put out that even this trap thinks he’s obsessed with green apples. He actually hates them, he just thought they matched the Slytherin aesthetic at school so he ate those ones. Pansy now thinks that that’s hilarious, and taunts him with them as much as possible. Apparently it’s not just her, but the gods in general. At least Blaise is on his side… sometimes. 

Sighing and trying not to whimper and aggravate his bruised side, Draco reaches into his pocket for his wand. He’ll be able to heal himself and get out of here in a couple of seconds, if he could just find his bloody wa- Draco’s eyes widen, his heart skipping a beat. He pats himself down, hands scrambling through his clothing and down his body. It has to be there somewhere, it has to be! Except it isn’t. Draco tries again, becoming more and more frantic when each pocket comes back empty. He groans and falls to his knees. He searches through his memories, his knees aching on the cold dirt floor. Where had he put his wand? He’d woken up and crept into Potter’s bedroom to get his clothes, and then showered. Draco had definitely had it when he woke up, but he’d put it somewhere while he showered. 

Had he never picked it back up? Surely not, surely he wouldn’t forget something so important as his wand. But clearly he had. Where is it though? Oh. The memory slots itself into his mind, and Draco feels like digging himself a grave. Or filling this one in, more like. It’s under one of the cushions on the sofa. Draco had put it there while he showered so that it would be safe. He does it all the time when he’s at his flat. So why did he forget it today? He sighs. That’s not important. What matters now is the fact that he’s stuck in a literal hole, with no way out and no way to contact the only other person anywhere near him. The walls are too tall and smooth, multiple meters high with no footholds. There is no getting out. Draco falls back onto his thighs and into despair. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has left comments or kudos so far! The love on this is blowing me away, and I’m so beyond glad that you all like it!

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[A Christmas tree and spheres of coloured lights on frozen ground at night]

**December 6th, 2003 - Saturday**

Harry is concerned, but not entirely distressed. Malfoy didn’t come back to the cottage yesterday, something he’s never done before. Harry had stayed up late, waiting for the blond Ferret to walk through the front door—no doubt muttering about the chill. That had never happened. Relying on Auror training and skills that arose during the War, Harry had worked out everything he could; not much at all. He’d figured out when Malfoy had left in the morning by using a spell on the post-it note, which acts kind of like a _Tempus_ but for the time something was written. It had come back just before sunrise. Malfoy had been out for over twenty four hours by now. 

Harry sighs and paces around the bedroom. He’d slept in the bed again last night, deciding that it wasn’t likely Malfoy would be back before he got to sleep. He was correct, but he wishes he wasn’t. Something must have happened. No. That’s ridiculous. Malfoy is a highly trained, highly skilled Unspeakable. If he _was_ in trouble, he would manage to get himself out of it with his wand. If he couldn’t for whatever reason, he’d somehow get a message back to Harry asking for help. Since neither of those things have happened yet, Malfoy must be fine. 

Harry stops pacing and runs his hands through his bird's-nest of hair. It’s entirely possible that the Ferret is just annoyed that Harry got to sleep in the bed the previous night. He is rather stubborn after all, and can hold a grudge for way too long. Part for being Slytherin, he says. Harry shakes his head. It’s not at all useful or productive to be thinking about Malfoy when he isn’t even _here_. No. Harry should get ready for the day and continue on as if nothing has happened. Who knows, Malfoy might even have found someone else to stay with until they manage to get back to London. Hell, Malfoy might be back in London already! Growling to himself, Harry gathers some clothes and storms into the shower. 

He doesn’t enjoy it this morning. He can’t get the water to cooperate, staying glacial in the cold air. Harry tries to wash his hair, but he can’t bring himself to dunk his head under the freezing water. It’s only as he turns the two knobs off and the water slows to a trickle that he remembers he could have spelled it warm. Groaning, he rushes through drying himself off and getting dressed. 

Harry pads into the kitchen, his feet bare on the floor. His red t-shirt sticks to the water droplets left over on his skin, and he tugs at it as he walks. Arriving in the small kitchen, he tries to decide what to cook. Yesterday he had barely eaten, so caught up with being annoyed at Malfoy for leaving that he hadn’t looked after himself. The only productive thing he’d done in the kitchen was cleaning up Malfoy’s bowl of porridge. Harry hates porridge, and he had done it with a screwed up nose and a lot of complaints. Now though, he has to decide what to cook for himself. After scouring over the contents of the cupboard and fridge, he gives up. He’s just not bothered cooking anything today. He grabs a green apple from the fruit bowl and calls it quits. It reminds him of Malfoy. He curses himself and bites into it, determined to not think of the man for a little while. 

*~*~*~

It’s bitterly cold as Harry makes his way down the cottage’s path. Clouds cover the sky and it looks like it will snow later in the evening. Harry shivers and pulls his coat tighter around himself, trying to block the cold from seeping in. If Malfoy isn’t going to come back to the cottage, then Harry isn’t going to _stay_ in the cottage. At least, that’s his thought on the matter. While outside, he might as well as explore the forest some more. Harry looks up from his hiking shoes as he crosses into the forest, suppressing a shiver that has nothing to do with the cold. 

Trying to swallow the feelings of dread and unease down, Harry allows his thoughts to roam. They fly first to his friends; his makeshift family. They’ve undoubtedly noticed that he’s missing by now, and are probably going through the stages of looking for him. Hopefully. After all they’ve gone through together, he can’t imagine that they’d just let him rot alongside Malfoy in a weird cottage. If they can’t find him though… No, that’s ridiculous! Ron is an _Auror_ —a bloody good one at that—and the others are all as determined as Harry himself. 

He thinks about Seamus and Dean, settling in together but still with the same competitive streak. It doesn’t matter that their stubbornness is usually directed at whose turn it is to choose the movie, if they are determined to win they will. Harry smiles at the two, glad to know they have each other even after the war. There’s no questioning Hermione’s determination, that’s for sure. She’s the sole reason Harry survived as long as he has—without her, he probably wouldn’t have made it past First Year! Her paired with Ron are a force of nature, so strong-willed that they can achieve anything they want to. 

Ginny and Luna are softer than the others, but no less resolute. After playing Quidditch for years, Ginny has become very unwavering in her focus. When she’s on a task she doesn’t slow down until the very end. Luna… isn’t naturally as determined as the others. At least not in her own way. If she’s searching for an answer to something, or for evidence one of her creatures exist, she won’t stop. Coupled with Ginny, she is just as reckoning as anyone else. Surely the six of them could pull together and find Harry? They’d have to. But the world is quite big, and the only things he knows for certain about where he is, is that it’s English speaking and in the northern hemisphere. It doesn’t make the search any less daunting. 

Harry sighs to himself and buries his hands in his pockets. As much as he’d love to believe that his life is so simple, and that he will be magically rescued by his friends, he knows it isn’t that likely. Even if they actually _are_ magical. The truth is that the Aurors just don’t prioritise missing persons cases that much. He’d know, after all. He’s worked a few before, but all at his own request for wanting to help the families. He _is_ Harry Potter though. The Aurors might have no choice in whether or not to look for him, him being the “Saviour” and all that rubbish. God, that’s what Malfoy calls him. He’s spent too much time around the prat.

It’s cold, and Harry pulls his wand out to cast some warming charms. The magic rolls over him, and it feels like being submerged into a hot spring. He exhales as the warmth settles in, closing his eyes and tipping his head back. Sunlight hits his face in small, weak patches. He opens his eyes a bit and squints. The light is mostly blocked out here, but if he moved slightly off the track to the left, he’d be standing where it’s a bit stronger. Harry runs awkwardly over to the sunny spot, hands still in his pockets. He smiles as the sun hits his—very rugged up—body, and continues walking through the forest. 

It’s better, with the sun on his face. The forest feels less closed in and more like a field. It doesn’t resemble the dark Forbidden Forest like this, too warm and bright for that place. Even if the warmth is mostly artificial and the light is struggling at best. Harry wonders if he should bring that up to Hermione, but shoots that thought down. She’s gotten to the point where she’d just tell him to go to a Mind Healer. He sighs. He really doesn’t want to. It’s probably what’s best, but he can’t imagine anything worse. 

Tired of that line of thought for the week, he shifts into other ones. Malfoy crosses his mind, wondering where he’s gotten too. He can’t be far. Then again, he’s been gone for over a day. He could miles away by now. Harry groans to himself and pushes Malfoy from his mind. He starts to pay more attention to his surroundings. The forest is more sparse now, larger gaps between trees. It’s still quite crowded, but not to the same extent it was earlier. He’s in a new part of the forest, one he’s never been in before. Not that that’s saying too much, since he’s been steadily trying to ignore it for most of the week. He forces himself to actually look; to actually take it in and try to piece things together. He’s an Auror after all. He should be able to glean _something_ from his surroundings. 

With that in mind, Harry starts taking mental notes to copy out later. He casts spells to show him the time and temperature, coming back as just past 11am and 8°C. He’s even more glad for the warming charms now. Harry tucks his wand back into his sleeve and carries on. The sun moves slightly through the tree branches, and Harry chases it with a smile. Even if he’s working, he’s allowed to want the warmth the sunlight brings. Through everything though, it’s still quite cold. Almost unnaturally so, and Harry pulls his coat closer and tighter. Happy he’s in the nice glow again, he continues going through lists. The temperature narrows down his location quite a bit, but that isn’t useful to him, not since he doesn’t have maps or access to a weather report. He shakes his head and keeps going. 

A little later, his head is full of random facts to check and cross over. Most of them will be useless—like the squirrel footprint he found—but some of them might check out (the wind speed, maybe?). Okay, the majority are worth literally nothing. He pinches the bridge of his nose, knocking his glasses up into his eyebrow bone. It hurts. A lot. And he does it all the damn time too. Anyone would think he’d _stop_ , but he _doesn’t._ He massages his forehead and sighs. 

A noise to his left startles him, and he whips around to look at it. Nothing’s there. Nothing at all. Maybe he’s just more blind than usual? Yeah, that’s probably it. Harry takes his glasses off and inspects them. They look the same as usual; scratched and somehow covered in dust. His vision should be the same. He must have imagined it. He slides them back onto his nose and continues walking through the forest, searching for possible clues while also enjoying the air. Despite his past trauma with forests, Harry can still admit that there’s something about them. Something soothing and calm and beautiful. Sometimes. Other times he can’t, but when he can it’s nice. It’s finicky, this post traumatic stress thing. 

Harry walks through the forest more, aiming to get to the outskirts and see how large it is from the outside. He’s been travelling for a good hour and a bit, so the forest clearly isn’t just an overgrown grove. As he steps over a branch, he spots a small clearing to his left up ahead. It looks like a good place for a break, and Harry’s stomach suddenly grumbles at him. It can’t be _that_ late- Oh. He’d only had an apple for breakfast… and by now it’s definitely past midday. Harry sighs. He hadn’t thought to bring food with him. Of course he hadn’t. Harry curses past him and condemns his afternoon to hunger. 

He makes his way to the clearing, hoping for a spot to sit down and rest. The majority of the forest is so tightly packed that sitting down anywhere is near impossible, and even when it isn’t there’s nowhere to sit! Harry’s feet ache, and he just wants to rest for a second. Okay. Maybe slightly longer than a second. This is hard work after all. 

The clearing is quite large, a pocket in the middle of a forest with no trees. Harry would consider it strange if it didn’t happen all the time in many forests. As he walks closer though, he realises that it isn’t empty. There are people standing to one side, milling about in the shade. They are all wearing identical outfits of black robes with purple and silver details. Something about that strikes a memory, misplaced images flickering up to the forefront of his mind. Nothing besides the Vanishing Cabinet enters his mind, but he’s sure there’s something else there too. Harry watches as one assumes leadership, standing before the others and calling their attention. The others sort themselves into some form of order, and they wait for the leader to start speaking. 

Harry can’t hear much of what’s being said, but the people watching seem to enjoy the speech. He presses closer, trying to listen in without being caught. This many people—nine, ten?—in uniform robes is not usually a good thing, especially since they aren’t work robes he’s seen anywhere before and the people definitely aren’t children. As he ducks behind a tree and closes his eyes in order to listen, he manages to grasp some of what’s being said. 

“…coming along nicely…shouldn’t have long now…it will work out…if not we’ll intervene…”

The voice is neither feminine nor masculine, giving nothing away as to who is speaking. The words also don’t cut much of a picture for Harry. They could be talking about practically anything! He only just manages not to groan in frustration. 

“…yes I know. We’re doing everything we can to make sure that doesn’t happen, and if it takes too long we will intervene.” 

Harry’s ears perk up. They’re worried about something not happening as planned, and it sounds time sensitive. He opens his eyes again and peeks around the tree he’s hidden behind. He scans his eyes over the people, hoping to gather any form of information. Nothing jumps out, their faces all cloaked in darkness. He does, however, notice that there’s _eleven_ people, not ten. That could be important. 

“But what if he never does?! He doesn’t have the greatest track record after all!” Someone else calls out from the group; a girl. 

The outburst makes someone else lunge at her, only stopped by others pulling them back. When the second person speaks, they’re revealed to be male. “I think you’ll find if you look a bit closer, that he actually has a _marvellous_ track record!” The voice sounds odd, like it’s been spelled to sound different. The girl’s voice most likely was too, he just probably hadn’t heard it. 

“Been reading a dictionary?!” The girl sneers.

The leader—still standing in front of the others with hands on hips—calls for silence. To Harry’s surprise, they instantly drop the argument. 

“Thank you. We need to leave now, before someone gets suspicious about the _noise_.” Harry can practically hear the glare in their voice. He feels embarrassed for the poor sod it has been directed towards. It takes him back to his first dressing-down by McGonagall. He’d hate to be spoken to like that by them, he’d probably melt. Another reason not to be a criminal. 

After a second of silence, people start moving. There are warm hugs and stilted handshakes, and then everyone Disapparates with a series of loud pops. Only the leader hangs back, waving their wand around the forest. Harry watches with his hand over his mouth as the trees move. They shift along the ground, winding between each other and spreading out to cover the clearing. There is no trace of it at all, totally hidden by the trees. The circle is gone, and so is all evidence of their meeting. The person nods to themself and sheaths their wand in a holster. Then they turn into their own Apparition. 

Harry stands in the silence for a long time. The forest feels like it’s closing in on him without the voices. Goosebumps prickle up his arms, his warming charms having vanished over time. He doesn’t move, breathing through his nose. His hair stands on ends, a cold breeze moving over his coat and somehow getting through it. And then he’s moving. 

The trees are too close to him. Too close to each other. There’s not enough space to move between them. Not enough time to get home before dark. Too many risks in running. Too many in walking. Harry’s mind spirals, panic rising to the top of his mind and wedging itself there. There’s no shaking it, not that Harry is trying to. He just needs to get out, needs to be in the cottage as soon as possible. It’s the closest thing he has to home. And it’s safe. Supposedly. That doesn’t help. It isn’t tested. But there are wards everywhere. It should be safe. But what if those people were terrorists? Wards wouldn’t stop them. But they don’t know he’s Harry Potter. Or that he’s staying in the little cottage. 

Harry’s pace picks up, his feet moving as fast as his heart beat. Despite everything, the cottage is the safest place right now. Kind of ironic, really. He shakes the thought off and runs back in the direction he came from. He’s barely watching where he’s running, leaping over branches on the floor and ducking below ones in the air. He isn’t even sure if he’s heading in the right direction, but it’s worth the risk. He’ll take anything to be as far away as possible. As much distance between himself and those 11 people who could have been doing anything. 

Harry needs an Auror partner. They’re supposed to calm you down, help you see rationally. That’s why every Auror is assigned one. Except he is alone, no one but the trees witnessing this break down. He runs on, his chest starting to burn with the need for oxygen. At last the sky becomes visible, a break in the forest. It could just be another clearing, but it looks like the end. The end of the forest and an entrance into daylight. He pushes harder, ignoring the pain in his throat and legs. Water and air can wait for safety. 

Harry’s feet fly out of the forest, landing on grass void of fallen twigs and leaves. His pace slows a bit, becoming steadier and less rushed. Less manic. He calms his breathing, slowing it to normal. The rest of the run is easy, enjoyable in its simplicity and rhythm. The cottage comes into view, and he adjusts his angle so he’s jogging up the path. A rush of relief washes over him; he could have ended up miles away, but he didn’t. He reaches the front door and pushes it open, never having been so happy to see the cottage in his life. 

*~*~*~

Harry sits on the couch, curled in on himself with hunched shoulders as he writes. He revisits everything that could be a clue to his location, thinking back on each random piece of information. He draws the memories forward using a technique he learned during Auror training, and scribes it in shorthand. His page is covered in his messy scrawl of handwriting, ink blots everywhere; he couldn’t find a pen, so he’s had to use a quill, and he never was any good at it. Dot points line the edge of the paper, and he’ll have to convert it into actual words later on. The seemingly random letters and numbers wouldn’t mean bullshit to anyone else. 

That done, he focuses in on the most important part of his exploration; the strangers. The group of 11 people, with their heavy robes and shadowed faces. Harry swallows hard and grips his thigh as he calls the memory forward, trying to gather as much intel as possible. He notes down the colours, the leader’s qualities and voice, the way they all spoke, the disagreement and arguments between members. It’s important information. It could even be their downfall. Having people clash could be the flaw that unravels their organisation. He’s seen it before, and he hopes history will repeat itself here. The last thing he needs is to be trapped in a cottage with a possible terrorist group hiding out in the forest adjacent to it. 

Harry writes down everything he heard them say, theorising on what it could mean and what it could affect. He has multiple ideas, but none of them have enough backing to be at all conclusive. It isn’t enough to get them arrested, definitely not on terrorist charges. He groans and shoves the papers away. Normally, he’d stash them in a file so he doesn’t have to see them unless it’s absolutely necessary. Here and now though, he doesn’t have that ability. He could always try to Transfigure something… No, it’s not even worth trying. He’d probably explode the cottage and everything inside. Not worth it. 

Harry’s thoughts once again turn to Malfoy as he sits on the couch. The man has been gone for a day and a half now. In the morning it will be two, and it’s not likely he’ll arrive in the dark. Harry sighs. Malfoy is okay. He has to be. There’s no chance he’s in any kind of danger. Harry’s been over this before. If Malfoy was in trouble, he’d use his wand and solve it in a minute. If he couldn’t, he’d summon Harry to help him. Of course, he could always be too proud to ask for help, but Harry hopes they’re past that. 

He groans. Hadn’t he decided not to think about Malfoy for the rest of the day? Oh well, no point. Clearly he can’t control his thoughts. He thinks some more, mind going over their interactions so far this week. Malfoy has been distant, sure. But he’s also been competitive, and funny, and intelligent. Very dramatic, but the only thing that’s kept Harry going. He presses the heels of his palms into his forehead. He doesn’t even know what the man has been _doing_ this week. Sure, he’s looked over the wards. He’s done a lot of cooking, sleeping, reading trashy novels, and a bit of bathing. Not that Harry’s paid _that_ much attention. Except he might have… just a little. Not in a creepy way. Aside from those things though, Harry doesn’t really know. 

Malfoy has been out more than in, really. Well, from Harry’s view at least. He’s also spent a lot of time in the bedroom. Except, when Harry slept in it everything was in order. There was no sign that someone else had been in there before, let alone spent so much time there. Well, unless you count that the sheets smelled like Malfoy, but Harry was quick to spell that away. So, if there is no sign of the Ferret in there, he must have hidden things. The thought latches itself onto Harry’s mind and sticks there. He can’t shake away the idea to snoop. It’s not his fault, not when Malfoy is the one out. With his mind set, he leaps off the couch and makes his way down the corridor. 

The bedroom is as he left it this morning; a pigsty. After pacing for ages and throwing things around the room in order to stop _thinking about Malfoy_ , he hadn’t been in the mood to clean it up. He remembered storming into the shower and never returning. Harry groans at past him for the second time today, and starts to put the room back into array. He flicks his wand to fold the clothes already littering the room, sending them flying into drawers. The dressing table next to the bed is somehow full of Harry’s clothes from Grimmauld Place. The exact ones too, not replicas—the coffee stain that looks like a cock on one of his jeans is very distinct—so there must have been a lot of spells that he missed when he went over the wards. 

Once the room looks habitable again, Harry actually begins the hunt. Malfoy must have left some trace in the room. He was in here for three nights, and the majority of a couple days. There must be something he did that he didn’t just vanish away. Like the flowers… Harry’s thoughts linger on the narcissus painting and wonders where Malfoy put it, if there are others. He needs to know. He starts rummaging around the bedroom, lifting up things and moving others around. Harry looks behind furniture, under the rug, in the fireplace, even under the mattress. He doesn’t find it. 

Sighing, he throws open the closet. He hadn’t wanted to look inside, worried that his brain would see Malfoy’s clothes and run. It has a very annoying habit of looking at someone’s clothing, seeing the lines and cut, and then picturing what that person looks like without it on. He _does not_ want to see Malfoy naked, not even in his own mind. Although… there is all that pale skin, all those bony limbs- No. Harry shuts the thoughts away, absolutely not wanting to deal with them. He can look into that later, not now. 

The cupboard looks normal. It’s full of different clothes, both Muggle and wizarding. While there are work robes and a few others—both formal and casual—the majority of Malfoy’s wardrobe is Muggle wear. Club clothes, actually. Harry finds his face scowling at the thought of Malfoy prancing around in leather pants that hug his arse and a glittery, sheer top. The people who saw were probably scarred for life! When Malfoy said he took people home often, Harry hadn’t actually thought about what that entailed. Looking at the rows of shiny, tight, revealing clothes puts those things at the forefront of his mind. Malfoy dressed in these would be… No. That’s enough. Harry moves to close the doors, but something catches his eye. 

A piece of paper sticks out from a pocket in one of the robes. He reaches a hand out, careful not to touch anything. When Malfoy comes flouncing back he’d be sure to notice that someone else has touched his clothes, the git. Harry curls his fingers around the paper and slowly pulls it out, two more becoming visible as it lifts from the pocket. It’s narcissus. It is a beautiful painting of the white flowers with a purple sky behind it, stars lighting it up in small circles. The painting is truly beautiful, and Harry feels taken aback by how good at this he must be. 

He puts it aside for now on the floor—he doesn’t like it, but every other surface is overflowing—and reaches for the other two. They’re both paintings too. The first is of pansies, deep purple and black ones next to yellow ones. The contrast is stark, but it’s all drawn together with a black background. It must have taken Malfoy ages to do these. Maybe that’s one reason he’s always so annoyed? Staying up all night to paint must be quite tiring. The third one isn’t finished yet, but it’s clearly a rose. There is a faint pencil outlining, a sketch of what will be filled in with the bright colours. While the other two were easy to guess who’d be getting them—Narcissa and Pansy respectively—Harry has no idea who will be receiving this one. He isn’t friends with anyone named Rose, is he? Harry doubts it. Maybe there’s some sort of rose with a fancy name that one of his friends has? He’ll have to look into it. 

Unless, of course, the rose isn’t for a friend. It’s so beautifully done, the lines so neat and the planning so meticulous. This piece of art could be for someone a lot more special than a friend. The thought turns Harry’s mood sour. Then again, he thinks, there could have been this much detail in all of them. He sighs, picking them all up and placing them back into the robe pocket, careful to leave them looking the same as when he found them. Straightening up, he looks around the room some more. It doesn’t take long for him to find the paints after that. They’re sitting at the base of the bed, and it’s astonishing that he missed it at all while searching, let alone sleeping in here for two days. He shakes his head at himself. This isn’t a holiday, he needs to stay on alert. Constant vigilance, as Moody would have said. 

It’s as he’s turning away to look at something else, that his eyes are drawn to yet another painting. But, as he peers closer at it, he realises it isn’t a painting at all. There’s a Muggle photograph sitting next to the paints, taken a few years back. In the forefront is Malfoy, of course, but it’s the background that really caught Harry’s attention. There’s an ice rink, but it’s beautifully decorated and lit up for Christmas. There’s a tree sitting in the middle of it, adorned with red and purple lights. It’s not just that though; there are massive balls of light sitting on the ice, plotted around the rink. They are stunning, bright colours lighting up the night. How anyone could skate around on the ice is beyond Harry, but it seems like just the thing Malfoy would think is good enough to brag about. Suddenly feeling like an intruder, Harry puts the photograph down and turns away. 

Harry moves over to the bookshelf, shuffling through the books. He wonders how many of these Malfoy has read. There are quite a few, but most of them feature straight relationships, and he said he wasn’t interested in those. At the bottom of the bookshelf, he finds a puzzle box. Intrigued by the lack of an image on the outside, he opens it. It’s empty. He scowls. Harry loves puzzles. They get his brain working in a different way and they don’t take much thinking at all. Well, he likes them until he gets stuck. Then he hates them. Shaking his head, he puts the lid back on the box and slots it back into the bookshelf. 

It’s only as he’s leaving the bedroom, realising that there probably isn’t anything else to find, that he sees the puzzle. It’s sitting in front of the fire, completed. That’s what else Malfoy was doing; trust the prat to like puzzles. And to have the patience to finish them! Harry rolls his eyes but moves closer all the same, looking at it. A laugh wrenches out of him. It’s the front of the cottage. Malfoy must not have been happy with that, for the puzzle is placed a little _too_ close to the fire. Harry can’t blame him. Happy to have finally discovered everything, he actually leaves this time, closing the bedroom door behind him. 


	7. Chapter 7

****

[Cardinal sitting on a tree branch with red berries and covered in snow]

**December 7th, 2003 - Sunday**

It’s so bloody cold, and Draco is sick of everything. The bottom of the hole is just as miserable as it was yesterday, and the day before that. Draco wants to give up and just dig himself a grave and lie in it, but without his wand that would take too much energy. Besides, if he _had_ his wand he’d rather be out of the hole than in a deeper one that’s filled in. He sighs. His ribs hurt, impossibly so, and he is covered in bruises and cuts. He’s always healed his injuries immediately in the past, not keeping any of them longer than he has to. Well, not all of them are removed—some are kept as reminders and memories—but the vast majority are. Some of these cuts will scar, he’s sure. 

Draco’s head pounds. He’s still sore from… Friday? Did he fall in on Friday? What day is it now? He doesn’t know. It’s irrelevant, there’s no escaping this pit. He forces his breathing to even out. There’s no point worrying about the past, not when he can’t do anything to help it. Tormenting himself with trivial things like the days of the week will only make it worse. Mind you, if he _did_ fall in on Friday, today would be Sunday. The seventh day of December, and the seventh day he’s been away from London. He presses his fingers against his eyes. Of course, he could be wrong. He _thinks_ the sun has passed over him twice, but who knows for sure?

At least the hole has food and water. The water is clean and cool, and there seems to be plenty of it. Draco may be pissed that Potter hasn’t come yet—and that’s the understatement of the year—but at least he won’t die of thirst or be filthy when he’s found; dead or alive. The food leaves more to be desired though. It may keep him alive, but it is clearly some sort of joke the gods are playing on him. The green apples are horrid, for a start. Not only is he cursed to look at the awful things, but they have nearly gone off and smell even worse than the thoughts they bring up. The cereal and oats are good for his energy levels, but they don’t taste good. They taste rubbish, actually. There’s no other description for them, they are plain horrible. The carrots are good though. A good size for a snack, even if they are quite boring. 

His hopes of Potter are also a train wreck. Draco doesn’t know why he even bothered thinking that he’d come and save him. Potter is, and always has been, the most unreliable person in an emergency; especially when it comes to saving Draco. Except that one time in Seventh Year, with fire licking at their heels in the air. He’d saved him then, and he’d barely known him. Now though, Potter knows Draco a lot better. He knows he wasn’t really a Death Eater in anything but name, that he was doomed for failure. He knows the way he thinks, the way he reacts to things around him. After three years of working together, Potter should know him like the back of his hand. Except, clearly he doesn’t, because he hasn’t found him yet. He probably hasn’t even thought that he’s missing.

Okay, technically they haven’t been ‘working together’ for three years. Technically they’ve been ‘assigned to work together’ randomly and sporadically for three years. But regardless, after spending so long paired up and pouring over notes together, Potter should know him well enough for this. If Draco was in danger or didn’t have the situation under control, he would absolutely not contact Potter. He wouldn’t want to appear inferior or helpless, and that would be the guaranteed impression if he asked for help. No, he’d only contact Potter once the danger had been dealt with. Clearly Potter doesn’t understand that, thinking that everyone is like him. Not everyone wants to ask for help the second they need it. He’d thought Potter had known that. 

Draco shivers, pulling his coat tighter to his body. He’s been unbearably cold while he’s been in the hole, unable to cast warming charms or do anything to warm himself up. He hasn’t even had the energy to exercise and warm up that way, not without proper sleep or coffee. Draco only has the energy to move most days because of coffee, so without it and no other way to wake up properly, he’s a disaster. So with no energy, bad food, and freezing cold weather, Draco is miserable. He shudders, his muscles spasming in the cold. He’s freezing, and he wonders if he’ll be found as an ice statue instead of a person. Maybe he’ll slowly freeze over, and this is just the gods' way of punishing him for everything all those years ago. 

Draco wishes he had a thicker coat, or a jumper as well. Nothing but layers will help, and unfortunately he doesn’t have nearly enough. He sighs. There’s nothing to do in the hole. So far, he’s drawn patterns into the walls with a stick, written out lyrics to songs on the floor, thought about his paintings that he needs to finish, and lied on the rock hard ground. Solid dirt is not at all comfortable, something he’s discovered the hard way. He’s also done a lot of investigating, trying to find out what happened and how he could get out. He has nothing on the last one, but the former…

If he thinks back to when he fell in, he remembers running through the forest. He was trying to get back to Potter, trying to show him the progress he had made. The cotton. Draco shuffles around, reaching for the bashed up fabric in his coat pocket. When he pulls it out, the colours are dull and covered in dirt. Under the layer of brown, the purple and silver are not so obvious, but are still visible if you know what to look for. He huffs a breath, eyes roving over the damaged cotton. It seems worthless now, utterly useless in the long run. What could a single piece of dyed cotton found in a Vanishing Cabinet mean? Not much, certainly. Draco scoffs at himself but puts it back in his pocket all the same. 

Deciding he might as well waste his day away, Draco flops onto the hard ground and winces. He still isn’t used to lying on something so solid and cold as the bare dirt. His arm burns where he cut it, and when he looks at it he sees it reopening. Red blood slowly bubbles to the surface, a colourful streak against his pale, dirt-stained skin. He sighs. There’s nothing he can do for it but run it under the tap again. Draco stands slowly, dusting himself off and straightening out his injured arm. He makes his way across the small hole to the tap and faucet, feet dragging and kicking up dust. He’s so tired, so exhausted. All he wants to do is sleep, but he can’t; not like this. 

Draco struggles with the water, rust set into the pipes making every movement stiff and jaunted. It squeaks and groans as he turns the handles. Water drips out, hitting the dirt with short, almost melodic notes. Then it turns into a stream, the liquid becoming clear and flowing without interruption. Draco reaches his hand out for it, testing the temperature. It’s freezing, no surprise there. It is December after all. He shrugs out of his coat, baring his arm for the water. Holding his breath, he pushes out his injured arm and keeps it under the spray. It burns, the cold water blistering against his open cut. It’s not that long, but it is deep, and the water rushes over it quickly. Draco releases his breath and forces himself to calm down. Panicking won’t help the situation.

Once he’s satisfied that the dirt has been washed away, Draco struggles through turning the tap off. He hisses in pain as he uses his injured arm, but he needs both hands to turn the handle. It would be so much easier with his wand. He sighs, trudging across the hole and sitting down at the opposite side again. He tips his head back, resting it against the dirt wall behind him. The sky above is grey, cloud covering what Draco knows is blue. That means it’s either night still, with the moon and stars blotted out by the heavy canopy above—or that it’s going to rain. Pour, really, possibly even storm. Draco knocks his head back, hitting it against the dirt. Knowing his luck and just how much the gods hate him, it’s going to be the latter. He can’t even escape it, trapped as he is. There’s only one thing he _can_ do. 

Draco screams. He shouts and shouts, kicking up dust and punching the walls. Someone must hear him, must hear the fuss he’s making. He may be injured and bone weary in his exhaustion, but he isn’t helpless. He will be as loud as possible until he is either found, or drops to the floor dead. The shouts rip from Draco’s throat, sounding impossibly loud in the quiet of the forest. Surely, surely someone is up there. The village may be long abandoned, but someone must visit it occasionally. They have to, right? He screams again, pleading with whoever can hear him, just to make sure.

Growing desperate when no one appears, Draco turns to the wall and begins to scrabble. His nails dig into the dirt, feet trying to lift off the ground. The wall is smooth, no footholds in sight. It’s metres tall too, Draco would have to be a seriously talented climber to make it to the top. Even if he managed to get a foot off the ground, he would be too tired to support himself. He’d no doubt slip off the wall the second he got off the ground. Sighing through his screams, he kicks up a frenzy. His shoes are coated in dust, dirt caking into them. He shouts again, voice going hoarse and throat beginning to burn. There’s nothing for it, he hasn’t made any progress. His feet are still on the ground. 

Draco sinks to his knees, tears falling from his eyes. He doesn’t usually allow himself to cry, but today is an exception. He’ll die here, at the bottom of a hole in a forest. Potter isn’t coming for him, not today. Not this time. He’s probably sitting in the cottage, in front of the fire and reading in the quiet. He’ll be enjoying the lack of Draco’s presence, revelling in the solitude. Draco is doing no such thing. He cries, hiccuping through the tears. Then the rain starts to fall. At least he knows he was correct; the gods really do despise him. They’re making him die like an animal, trapped in a dirt hole all alone. He’s as abandoned as the village. 

He needs to calm down, needs to save his energy. If he was in his flat, he’d sit in the bath with a glass of wine and sketch. He likes art, anything visual that keeps his hands busy. Things like drawing and painting, even putting together puzzles. They calm him down, bring him back to the beauty of the world and what’s important. That’s why the puzzle was so good, the very first day he was teleported away from London. The rain only grows heavier though, the cold liquid wrenching Draco from his pleasant thoughts. He opens his eyes, staring up at the clouds. The gap in the trees is small, but the rain manages to pour down onto him. It isn’t long before Draco is soaked to the bone. 

He shivers, cold shooting through his body as he becomes drenched by the rain. It’s freezing, made even colder in the winter air. There’s nothing he can do to get out of it, trapped as he is at the bottom of a hole. A thought occurs to him. It’s stupid, it could never work. But what if it does? He clutched at the idea like a beacon of hope. Draco heaves himself up from his knees, scowling at the mud stains. It’s worth a try at least—he can’t get much worse off than he is now. He pulls himself to his feet, hands clutching at the wall for balance. The dirt is mixing with the rain, and mud runs down the wall and onto the wet floor. He purses his lips and steadies himself. His freshly-cleaned wound is covered in dirt again, but there’s nothing he can do about that. The rain will wash most of it away over time anyway. Besides, an infection isn’t going to matter when he’s dead. 

Draco looks around, eyes scanning over the floor of the hole. When he fell in, the net over the hole caved inwards. The leaves and sticks covering the net and hiding it from view collapsed, and some tumbled into the dirt trap. Now, there are sticks littering the floor. Some are broken and too short to be useful, but some are long and look quite sturdy. Draco stumbles across the hole and gathers as many of these ones as he can. They dig into his skin and rip his clothes into tatters, but he manages to collect a few. The branches are wet and sodden, feeling almost slimy against his hands. He’s going insane, but this might work; he has to try. 

He’s going to dig an alcove. There’s every possibility that it might cave in, that he might suffocate beneath the dirt, but it also has the chance of success. He might be able to create a shield from the rain; a little room made of dirt and held up by sticks where he can’t be seen. A place safe from the dangers of the forest and the gods’ wrath. Draco swallows past the pain and misery, and moves closer to the wall. He’d rather not shovel through wet dirt with his bare hands, but what other option does he have? He’s desperate. He needs to get some shelter, that much is obvious. If he’s going a bit insane with the method of finding it… too bad. 

Draco reaches a hand out, sees the red line across his arm and flinches. The cut is bleeding freely in the rain again, but what can he do? He’s in the bottom of a hole! He pushes through the discomfort of seeing his own blood like that, and scoops out a handful of dirt. To his immense relief, it comes out easily. No dirt falls into the space created either, and Draco breathes a little easier. This might actually work. Maybe the forest is magical, and doesn’t want him to die like this? It’s feasible. Or maybe it’s letting him dig his own grave. That’s also a possibility.

Breathing steadily and ignoring the pulsing in his head, Draco scoops out another handful. The dirt is wet and sludgy, and the longer he holds it the more it becomes mud. He flings it off his hands and watches as it hits another wall and slides to the ground. This is going to be a long process. He wipes his muddied hand against his pants and groans as his skin stains brown. He’s also thought of himself as too pale, but covering his body in mud was never a solution he’d thought of. At least the hole in the wall isn’t immediately caving in. 

A bird flies past him, swooping over the top of the hole. It’s bright red, it’s colour standing out insanely in the rain. Draco squints, holding his hand up to his eyes. The bird is not entirely red. Rather, it’s body is ruby red, it’s wings are a slightly darker shade, and the area around its eyes is black. A vague memory tugs at him, and Daco gasps as he realises what this bird is. It’s a cardinal. 

“What are you doing in England?” He murmurs to the bird as it lands next to him, knowing full well that it can’t hear him or understand. 

It tips it’s head though, eyes gazing at him as if staring into his soul. Draco squirms under its attention, uncomfortable with the thought that it actually _can_ understand him. He shakes his head and strikes his hand out, shooing the cardinal away. The bird chirps at him but flies off after shaking some of the rain from its feathers. Draco screws his nose up and flicks the water from his face.

He must have hallucinated the bird. Cardinals are native to North and South America, they don’t belong in England. Draco sighs and contemplates eating one of the apples purely to raise his blood sugar. It must be severely decreased for him to see a bird so vibrant in the middle of a rain storm. One glance at the green apples is enough to send his stomach roiling though, and he quickly pushes the thought away. 

*~*~*~

“Hey little guy,” Draco coos at the squirrel which has just fallen into the hole, delighted at the prospect of company. It can get very depressing having only your thoughts to keep you entertained while it pours down and you’re coated in dirt.

The squirrel is soaked through and covered in leaves and mud, and Draco’s heart clenches. The little thing doesn’t deserve to be out in the rain, not like he himself does. It skitters around the hole, trying to jump out back onto the forest floor. When all attempts are fruitless, the squirrel gives up and tries to climb out instead. It spots the beginnings of the alcove Draco has been digging, and launches itself at it. The hole in the wall squelches as the animal lands in it, but it holds. Draco would have screamed if it hadn’t. The squirrel looks around from its vantage point, probably trying to find something else to jump off of. 

It turns its eyes to Draco, tipping its head to the side in what can only be consideration. Draco lifts an eyebrow, watching the animal in its decision making. The squirrel launches itself out of the alcove and right at Draco, digging its claws in with fierce determination. It slides a little down his chest, nails ripping even bigger holes in his shirt. It claws at his body, and Draco feels more scratches being cut into his skin. He winces in pain but doesn’t move. One of the worst things he could do is try to grab at the animal, as that will only scare it. Right? Draco isn’t sure anymore, but it sounds correct, so that’s what he’ll do. 

The squirrel manages to hold itself up, and it scrabbles higher up Draco’s chest. It’s nails keep scratching him, and he flinches as the animal climbs onto his shoulder. There’s more shirt there than anywhere else, and the pain is dulled through the fabric. Draco feels like he could fall over in his exhaustion and pain, but he manages to stay standing. Despite everything this little devil is putting him through, he doesn’t want to squish it under his weight. The squirrel sticks it’s claws into his skin again, and makes its way up to his head. Draco curses as he hears—and feels—his hair catch between claws. He’s now certain the thing on his head is a demon placed here by the gods. They’re not happy that he’s had success—no matter how minimal—so they brought a squirrel into the equation to ruin his hair. That must be it. He isn’t going insane at all.

Draco yelps as it rips a bit of his hair out of his scalp, and his hands fly to the squirrel above him. His hand hits the squirrel’s body hard and the demon falls off his head. Instead of hitting the ground though, it digs its claws into Draco’s back and skids down. He hisses in pain and twists his body erratically. He tries to dislodge it, but it’s nails are wedged in his skin. Draco stills, straightening up and withdrawing his hands from the animal. Maybe if he acts like a tree, the squirrel will get discouraged? Maybe? Maybe. It’s worth a try. He stands there, rain pouring down on him, watered-down blood trickling down his arms, with a squirrel attached to his back. Draco wants to sleep. He’s so tired, he’s not even sure if this is real. It could just be a fever dream. Part of him hopes it is.

The squirrel doesn’t give up, but it does release its hold slightly. With its claws out of his back, Draco can breathe a little easier. The little animal scratches his skin with it’s foot, it’s tail brushing the back of Draco’s neck. It’s rain sodden, the normally fluffy fur compressed with water. The squirrel makes a sound like chirping, and then begins sliding down Draco’s back. It scrabbles, trying to get a grip on the torn, wet shirt. It doesn’t succeed, grunting as it slides all the way down his back and left leg. It flops to the ground, making a squelching sound as it hits the mud. 

Draco turns his head and looks at the squirrel. It’s lying on the ground, not moving as it sticks in the mud. He feels awful for the poor thing, but also thinks it kind of had it coming. It ripped his skin for Merlin’s sake! And his shirt! Not that he really cares _too_ much about the shirt, since it was already ruined anyway. He huffs a breath and knows what he wants to do. Despite everything, he can’t allow the bloody thing to die like this. It may be his fate to die at the bottom of a hole, but it’s not the squirrel’s. 

Shaking his head at his decision, he scoops the animal up in both of his hands. It’s soaked through and freezing cold, and Draco’s heart clenches just a little bit. He walks over to the tap and struggles to turn it on with only one hand, before dunking the squirrel under the stream. It jumps and tries to wriggle out of his grasp, but Draco only tightens his grip. The clean water washes the mud away, but in the winter rain it burns Draco’s hand with the cold. He can’t imagine how it must feel for the tiny animal. Once the dirt is gone, Draco rushes to wrap it up in his coat. He’d taken it off to clean his arm hours ago and never put it back on, but now it’s the perfect place for the squirrel to warm up—even though it’s also been abused by the rain and won’t be able to be fixed. If anything, that makes it more perfect for the squirrel, since it can’t ruin the coat more than it already is.

It burrows itself into the wet fabric, trying to escape the cold rain. Draco chuckles at the little thing that might be a demon, and picks up his coat. He moves it over to the tiny hole in the wall and places it in. The alcove-niche-thing provides good protection from the rain, and the squirrel pokes its head back out of the coat. It’s adorable, even if Draco vividly remembers it launching itself at him ten minutes ago. He sighs at his predictability, and prepares himself for hours of sitting in the rain with nothing to do and no way to warm up.

*~*~*~

Draco sits on the rain soaked dirt, mud seeping through his clothes. It’s been what seems like hours and the relentless pouring hasn’t ceased. Hasn’t even wavered. He knew something would happen. Knew that his life would end in nothing but misery. He doesn’t like to think about it, but the possibility that his choices as a teenager will lead to his death, is starting to look very real. All those times he was a rude, arrogant prick. Every opportunity he took to belittle someone, or to make fun of their situation. Each slur and insult thrown at an undeserving and unsuspecting victim. It’s enough to make his toes curl, and that’s far from the worst of it.

He’s a murderer. No, he hasn’t technically killed anyone, but he was going to. He’s played a part—no matter how small—in multiple people’s deaths. He hates himself for it. Every day he has to wake up and see his Mark, the proof of his mistakes and past. It would be so easy to blame his father, his own situation, but that’s not entirely true. He actually believed the things he was saying, the things he was thinking. His friends and coworkers disagree, saying that he only thought those things because he was raised to believe them. Draco isn’t sure. He can’t be sure of anything anymore, not when his past drowns out any possibility of a positive future. He feels off kilter, like he’s on a fishing boat in a five metre swell. Some days he doesn’t think twice about it all, accepting it and moving on. Other days he builds it into a chasm and finds himself spiralling down it.

It’s hard to balance life and work with his past. It always has been, and he knew it would be especially so if he chose to become an Unspeakable. Yet here he is. He’s gone through so much to get to where he is, and despite everything he’s done since he was 17, he’s going to die like this. Panic seeps in further than the mud ever could, reaching his heart and gripping it with a fist colder than the winter air. He shakes, his body exhausted and freezing. There’s nothing he can do. Nothing. He’s forced to sit in a dirt trap, in a forest, near a deserted village, miles from home. 

The only other person nearby is Potter. He doesn’t even care enough to come looking for him. Draco wonders what he’ll think when he finds his body. _If_ he finds his body. Maybe he hasn’t even noticed. Maybe, maybe he’s sitting on the sofa in the cottage, safe from the rain. He could be in front of the fire, warm and dry, forgetting about everything. Draco’s heart shrivels in jealousy. What he wouldn’t give to be there. To even just be out of the hole. He’d willingly walk all the way back to London if it meant he could be dry and level with the rest of the ground. 

Draco knocks his head against the dirt wall behind him. He needs to stop thinking of Potter. Needs to stop imagining him in comfort like he has multiple times today. He stares into space. The squirrel is long gone, his only source of company and entertainment vanished into the rain. It had slept for a bit, ate a bit of the food, and then used Draco’s head as a stepping stool for jumping out of the hole. He doesn’t know how it jumped high enough to get out, but it managed somehow. Draco closes his eyes, rain falling onto his forehead and running down his face. He’s sure he looks like a right mess. His hair is no doubt soaked with mud and rain, he’s body is covered in bruises and cuts with blood dripping from them and mixing with the water, and he’s so tired he could drop dead and not be able to tell the difference. 

Draco’s thoughts take a turn for the worse. They stray to his mother, sitting at her home in the countryside, waiting for any news of Draco. What if she thinks he’s dead? Well, he’s going to be soon anyway. Even if he doesn’t starve thanks to the awful food, his body won’t be able to take the elements much longer. As an Unspeakable, he knows first hand how important shelter is. Without it, a person is doomed to the weather’s mercy. He’s about to find out how horrifying that fate is firsthand. Potter won’t come for him. He won’t rescue him. After all they’ve been through, they’ll die apart. One, in a well lit and warm cottage fit for the Saviour, the other in a dirt hole fit for a Death Eater. 

Draco collapses in on himself, head falling forward and shoulders slumping over his knees. He’s going to die as ‘the Death Eater’. Even after all his work to redeem himself and his name, he’s dying as if nothing’s changed. That's what hurts the most. He falls to his side, lying on his injured arm and tucks himself into a ball. The pain makes him feel alive. It hurts, almost too much, but it means he knows he isn’t dead yet. His eyes burn, and when he squeezes them tighter tears fall down his cheeks, only to be washed away by the rain. He cries on the dirt floor, not caring about anything except his disastrous fate and the path that led him here. His mind spirals.

To him, in his warped mind, the earth is spinning; constantly spinning. It’s impossible to balance, with the floor always moving beneath his feet. It’s understandable, really, that Draco would eventually fall. And even though he envies those who appear to have good balance, those who can withstand the spinning, he knows that they fall down too. The only difference is that they have people to catch them, to pull them back up. That’s where he _truly_ fell short. 


	8. Chapter 8

**  
**

[A pair of thick, woollen hedgehog gloves]

**December 8th 2003 - Monday**

Harry paces back and forth across the kitchen, shoes tapping on the tiles. The sun has risen to midday and he’s starting to get extremely worried. Malfoy hasn’t come back yet. It’s been days. Originally, Harry had thought that everything was fine and that nothing had happened. Maybe Malfoy had just gotten sick of Harry’s company, but now he thinks it’s something more sinister. Something _must_ have gone wrong for Malfoy to not have reached out. 

Harry doesn’t know what to do anymore. He had thought that Malfoy would just make himself known again and life would return to normal. Or that Malfoy would somehow make it back to London and then proceed to get Harry out of here. Neither of those have happened though, and it’s been several days. Malfoy could be dying, and here Harry is, sitting in a warm cottage. Well, technically he’s pacing—and has been for hours—but still. To be fair, it’s not like Harry hasn’t noticed or tried to help. The first day Malfoy hadn’t returned, Harry had just assumed that he’d left it too late to come back and had found shelter elsewhere. Yesterday though, when he still wasn’t back, Harry had become worried. Then it had poured all day and he couldn’t do anything to help through the rain. Today the sun is out and even though it’s freezing, there is no sign of rain. 

Harry sighs and stops his pacing. He turns to the sink and pours himself a glass of water, tipping it down his throat and swallowing quickly. He’s tired with worry, but he knows he has to do something. He can’t allow Malfoy to die somewhere because he himself couldn’t be bothered to look for him. He has to go out into the forest and village, and turn it inside out. He needs to find Malfoy and drag his pale ass back to the cottage. Even if he isn’t in danger and just tried to run away, he wouldn’t have been able to get to London by walking. He could have tried Apparating, but they’ve both already figured out that that doesn’t seem to work. It’s possible the forest is magic and it’s preventing them from leaving, but they couldn’t Apparate from the cottage either. Hm.

Harry has always had a very good sense of when things have gone wrong, and today is no different. Of course, the last few days go against that judgement… but whatever. He’s come to the same conclusion eventually. He needs to go out and do everything in his power to find him, otherwise he doesn’t know what he’ll do. If Malfoy is dead because he waited out the storm, he won’t be able to forgive himself. He can’t let that happen. He knocks back another glass of water, picks up a banana for the trip, shrugs on a jumper and a coat, and steps out into the winter air. 

A shiver races up Harry’s spine, goosebumps prickling his skin as the wind goes straight through his layers. He wraps his arms around himself and hunches inwards. His footsteps squelch on the sodden snow on the path, and he’s reminded of just how much it rained yesterday. If Malfoy hadn’t found cover… well. It won’t be good. Harry reaches for his wand and casts multiple warming charms, overlapping them across his body so that when one dies away, the rest of him stays warm. It’s a trick he learned when he was training for the Aurors, and this is quite possibly the first time he’s actually used it. He’s never been in weather this cold, and for that he is very grateful. It’s so cold his fingers are turning blue, orange spots standing out on the back of his hands. 

He reaches the forest without taking much in, and he curses himself for his tendency to get lost in his head. He can _not_ afford to do that right now, not when Malfoy’s life could be at risk. Harry takes a deep breath, feels it fill up his lungs and trickle through his body. He releases it slowly, the air puffing out in a cloud. His body is more relaxed, soothed by the extra oxygen pumping through his blood. He opens eyes he hadn’t realised he’d closed, and takes a step into the forest. 

Instantly, his hands start sweating and his heart rate picks up. He needs to get over this. He’s been in this forest so many times this last week that the feeling of unease should be gone. If anything though, it’s only increased from the last time. Those witches and wizards still plague his thoughts, and he really needs to talk about it and get it out of his system. Normally, he’d do that in the way of theories and planning with Ron—or Malfoy, whenever they’re partnered together for work—and he’d manage to work everything out. He couldn’t do that though, so he had tried to write everything out. It hadn’t worked that well. He doesn’t usually write out memories without viewing them again in his Pensieve, and Harry would give basically anything to get his hands on it right now. 

That thought brings up images of Grimmauld Place, and he’s struck with how sorely he misses his home. He’d renovated it before moving in, removing the dark and ancient things and replacing them with decor more to his taste. The lack of dead house elves helped drastically even if nothing else did. He swallows down the melancholy feeling and keeps his head up. He’s on mission right now. Missing persons cases are of critical importance, and if he misses something then the person might not make it out alive. Just because he knows said person, it doesn’t mean that he can forget his training. 

Malfoy is clever. He thinks everything out and only acts when he knows what will happen. If he doesn’t, he’ll study some more. It doesn’t matter whether he’s studying an event by reading about it, a place by looking around it, or a person by watching them and their actions, he always makes sure everything is perfect. Harry can’t really imagine him not paying attention to his surroundings, so something must really have gone wrong. Maybe he was in a rush and didn’t notice something? He could have been grabbed from behind while distracted. Hell, it could be any number of things. He only hopes he isn’t too late. 

Harry scans the forest floor, eyes looking for inconsistencies or anything suspicious. There are loads of possibilities, but none of them stand out. A lack of sticks on the ground could mean they were moved by animals, or by the people here two days ago. Malfoy might even have moved them himself, but there’s no proof of that anywhere so he can’t make assumptions. If a branch is missing the majority of its leaves, it’s probably just an animal that got slightly too enthusiastic with eating. None of it necessarily means anything at all. Harry’s heart still pumps loudly though.

He sighs. He hates this part of investigations, going through crime scenes and trying to figure things out. That’s normally something someone else does for him, but he’s alone in this. He’s the only one that’s on this case, and no one can jump in and help him. Harry moves his gaze upwards to the canopy, watching for any gap in the trees. There is a small one a bit to his left, but he recognises it as the clearing from Saturday. His thoughts try to turn back to the strange gathering, but he forces it away. That’s a separate thing, not at all relevant in finding Malfoy right now. 

Time passes, the banana long gone and the warming charms fading. Harry has walked through the forest all the way to the other side, only getting scared a couple of times—at one point he’d thought he was being followed, which he was, but it was by a squirrel and not a person. He gets to the part where the trees thin, and he pushes the branches aside to see the village once again. The same feeling of relief passes through him as he leaves the forest and walks onto open ground. The village is just as empty as usual, but it’s less unsettling now. Maybe he’s just become accustomed to the deserted buildings, but it’s not as off-putting as before. 

He forces himself to slow his pace as he approaches. He’s still on unofficial duty, so he still needs to keep his eyes peeled. It’s entirely possible that Malfoy has found shelter from the rain in one of the village’s little buildings and just lost track of the days. He could have planned to leave when he woke up, and then got caught up doing something else. Harry doesn’t think that’s it. It’s not like Malfoy to hide from his problems, and if _Harry_ is that problem he is especially more likely to confront it head on. Usually in the form of arguments and snide comments. Harry casts his mind back, trying to think of the last major one. It doesn’t take long, the picture of a ruined jumper and Malfoy’s angry face flooding his mind. 

Harry walks into the village from the butcher’s end, having noted nothing of interest between it and the forest. It’s just as eerie as normal, dust and grime coating the buildings and broken windows ruining the curb appeal of each shop. Not that there’s anyone around to judge if the store is trustworthy or not, but Harry still takes it into consideration. He also notices that the village isn’t wet, the ground not squishy with mud and sodden snow. The rain hadn’t reached this far yesterday. That disproves Harry’s theory about Malfoy waiting out the storm here; he wouldn’t have known it was happening! 

He shakes his head to get his fringe out of his eyes. It’s really annoying when his hair gets trapped between his face and his glasses, and Harry huffs as it falls back down in his eyes. He should have listened to Hermione and had it cut. Putting aside thoughts of his hair, he makes his way through the village. Even if Malfoy didn’t spend the night here, he might have visited at one point. If he even found it. It’s entirely possible that he went a different way and never crossed its path. Harry certainly never spoke of it when he first found it. Perhaps, in hindsight, he should have. 

The shops are just as battered and unloved as usual, and nothing appears to be any different than the last time Harry was here. If Malfoy _had_ found the village, he didn’t touch anything. Harry makes his way through the shops and down the path, approaching the courtyard at the end. The Vanishing Cabinet should still be there, and it could reveal something. Maybe Malfoy found the plaza first and ran when he saw the Cabinet? It’s entirely plausible given his history with them and the fact that it brought them here. But he’s also an Unspeakable… so you’d think he’d be too curious about it to leave. 

Harry arrives at the courtyard to find it exactly the same. Exactly the same, that is, except for the Cabinet doors hanging open. He rushes towards it, hurrying to investigate it. Someone must have touched it, must have _opened_ it. Who would open a bloody Vanishing Cabinet?! Malfoy. Malfoy would. Harry’s assumption seems like it could have some truth in it. For the Ferret to have unlatched the doors, he must have known that it wasn’t going to teleport him out of here immediately. He must have done some form of testing on it. Well, he could have just reached for it and damned the consequences, but that seems rather irresponsible for an Unspeakable. 

Harry walks circles around the Cabinet, eyes roving over the wood on the lookout for anything he could use as evidence. Nothing shows up, and he moves to crouch in front of the doors. They are hanging wide open on their hinges, displaying a clear view into the dark space within. Harry can’t see anything inside it even if he squints, and he pulls his wand out of his sleeve. 

“ _Lumos_ ,” he murmurs, his wand tip lighting up in a soft blue glow. He holds it out in front of him, tilting it to reach inside the Cabinet without touching it. Harry is not running the risk of being teleported somewhere else, even if Malfoy did. 

The Cabinet is empty. There’s nothing inside it at all, just smooth, perfect wood. It’s almost too perfect, really. Harry moves closer and shifts his wand hand so he can get a closer look. It’s so carefully flawless, nothing out of place or rough. There are no imperfections in the wood, making it impossible for something to be hidden inside in a smaller compartment. He purses his lips, his eyebrows furrowing. He moves closer still, and this time his hand brushes against the inside of the Cabinet. His breath catches, eyes widening, waiting for something to happen. Waiting for the feeling of tumbling through the air. Nothing. Nothing changes, and he’s still very much crouched in the middle of a courtyard. 

Harry exhales in relief and hurries to remove his hand. He may not have been teleported by accidentally touching it, but he does _not_ want to risk it again. He puts the _lumos_ out with a flourish of his wand and tucks it back into his sleeve; only to pull it back out again. Someone else could stumble across the village, and the last thing he wants is for them to go poking around in a potentially dangerous Vanishing Cabinet. With a flick of his wand, the doors close and the built-in lock clicks. Then he adds some more challenging locking charms to the doors. Satisfied that no one but another Auror could possibly get around the spellwork, he pushes his wand up his sleeve and turns back to the forest. 

Malfoy wasn’t in the village or the forest. Harry’s heart sinks as he makes his way back through the open ground. He hasn’t found him yet, and he’s very conscious of all the time he’s wasted. With the village out of the equation, there isn’t much left. Harry must have missed something in the forest. That’s the only answer. He runs all the way to the edge of the trees and ducks under the branches, the only thought in his mind of getting to Malfoy before it’s too late.

Harry shivers as he slows down, the burning in his chest a stark comparison to the cold air against his skin. He casts another set of warming charms, only now noticing that they have worn off. As they settle in place and make him feel less like a zombie, Harry goes back through the forest with a fine tooth comb, so to speak. There isn’t anything near the gap, but Malfoy might not have come this way so that doesn’t mean anything. Harry looks around, trying to imagine what he might have been feeling. 

If _he_ was the one to find a Vanishing Cabinet—especially with that level of history—he would be panicked. If _he_ then opened the doors and looked through it, having to touch it to do so, he wouldn’t be thinking normally. What if Malfoy actually did find something? What if it was a crucial piece of evidence to them getting out of here? If it was Harry in that position, he would have run. He would have tried to race back to the cottage to find Malfoy and figure it all out. But he might not have anything correct right now. Malfoy could have just up and left. Harry hopes not. 

Without much thought about the process, he runs. He sprints through the forest, working himself into a panic. Retracing steps and reenacting events can be very useful, so if he is correct, he needs to do the same. Running makes Harry’s heartbeat spike again, and his breath comes out in heavy puffs of cloud. His arms move beside his body, his feet moving without any consideration about where they land. He allows his body to just _run_ and not think. He jumps over fallen branches, ducks under branches that would otherwise hit him in the face, and fails a couple of times. A mildly sprained ankle and a new bruise across his cheek aren’t the end of the world though, so he keeps running. 

He pushes himself to new limits, running faster than ever through the forest. The panic he’s forced on himself morphs, becoming more real. Flashbacks fill his mind. Walking through a forest in First Year and seeing Voldemort drinking unicorn blood. Spiders chasing him in the car in Second Year. Running to avoid Remus’ werewolf form. Finding the dragons in cages. The giant, the centaurs, the dementors, the fire and Hagrid’s hut burning to the ground. The snatchers, Ron’s arm nearly being splinched off. Dying. Harry isn’t aware of anything anymore, just the all consuming need to get _out_. 

Harry bends low to avoid a branch, sidestepping a large root in the ground. His feet fly over the obstacles with no input from his mind. He jumps over a log and a gaping hole in the ground, landing on the other side. His foot slips and he falls, arms supporting his entire body weight as his legs hang in the hole. 

“Harry?!” 

Harry startles, arms turning to jelly for a second before fear takes over. He tightens his grip on a root and hauls himself up, gaining new bruises as his knees bang into solid dirt. The second he’s back on level floor he whirls around. 

“Draco!” Sure enough, at the bottom of the giant hole, Malfoy is standing covered in blood and dirt. “What the fuck happened to you?!”

Malfoy scoffs from metres below Harry, blowing the hair out of his face. Well, trying. It ends up stuck in the mud on his face. “I fell into this death trap is what happened.”

Harry would roll his eyes at Malfoy’s sarcasm but he’s just too ecstatic about finding the man alive! He’s alive! “Ho-”

“How? I wasn’t watching my feet is how.”

Harry sighs. “Are you okay?”

Malfoy opens his mouth—probably for another rude retort—but closes it. He shakes his head slowly and turns his gaze down to the floor.

Harry gapes at the blatant admission before springing into action. Malfoy is here, and he’s clearly hurt. He’s been through a rainstorm with no shelter, no food or water minus the rain, and is exhausted enough to acknowledge that he isn’t okay. 

Harry looks around, eyes jumping from one thing to another. There has to be something! Something to use! His gaze lands on a vine torn from a tree in the storm, and he rushes over to it. He hauls it up over his shoulder and drags it to the hole. It’s deep. There’s no way Malfoy could have climbed out of it. It was a grave. He throws the vine off his shoulder and drops one end into the hole. Malfoy seems to get the idea and struggles over to it, wrapping his hands and arms around the vine. 

“I’m-” he starts. Harry can see his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows. “I won’t be able to-”

He’s clearly struggling to finish the sentence, so Harry just nods. Malfoy relaxes a bit and jumps enough so his feet lift off the ground. He wraps his legs around it too, and nods. Harry heaves a breath and tugs. If the vine didn’t weigh a ton before, it is doubly so now. Malfoy isn’t particularly heavy, but combined with the rain-soaked vine it’s a struggle for Harry to lift it; especially from this angle. He huffs another breath and blows his cheeks out. He needs to do this. Needs to get Malfoy up to safety. 

Malfoy groans in pain as he’s knocked against the wall, and Harry blurts out an apology. The sound makes him more desperate. Malfoy is seriously injured, he can’t be bumped into things like solid dirt walls! With that thought, Harry pulls even harder. His muscles jump under his skin with the strain, his face burning with the exertion. He gives another hard tug and stumbles backwards over a root. Searing pain spreads across his head and his vision blacks out, but he hears scrabbling from the hole and leaps up again. Pushing through the pain and blinking furiously, he sees that Malfoy has an arm thrown over the top of the hole. Harry rushes over and grabs his hand. He heaves the man out of the hole and is careful not to drop him too hard. 

Malfoy lies on the forest floor panting, breathing quickly and squeezing his eyes shut. Harry leans against a nearby tree and catches his breath. He brings a hand up to his injured head but doesn’t find it wet. Not too bad then. He takes this moment to look Malfoy over for injuries. There are a lot of bruises and minor cuts down his back, caked with mud. His shirt is ripped in about ten places, straight lines cut vertically. Harry wonders how they got there, but Malfoy rolls over before he can think too hard about it. 

He has more cuts on his front, his shirt torn to reveal a chest covered in ripped up skin. Harry’s lip curls but he forces himself to maintain calm. Malfoy also has a deep wound down his arm, and Harry is particularly worried about that. Some of the cuts wrap around his neck, but they all seem superficial. Malfoy doesn’t seem fazed by any of them though, so none of them are from just now. 

Harry wipes his hand across his brow and finds it damp with sweat. He crinkles his nose but brushes it off against his leg, and trudges through the undergrowth towards Malfoy again. He doesn’t say anything, just offers a hand. Malfoy looks thoughtful for a second before accepting, gripping tight and pulling himself up from the ground. He throws himself at Harry, arms wrapping around his neck and face burrowing into Harry’s shoulder. 

“I thought,” Malfoy hiccups. Harry realises he’s crying. “I thought I was dead. I thought I’d die at the bottom of that hole.” 

Harry places his chin on Malfoy’s head and looks straight ahead. “I’d never let you die like that.”

*~*~*~

Malfoy is wrapped around him, dozing on his shoulder and breathing into his neck. Harry is walking. After the hug—was it a hug? Harry supposes it was—Malfoy had fallen asleep quickly. Harry had scooped him up and is now carrying him through the forest back to the cottage. He certainly wasn’t going to leave him there, and he wasn’t wasting any time just sitting around. That left picking him up and carrying him like a child. 

The forest seems less daunting now that he isn’t walking through it alone. The shadows are just that; shadows. The broken branches are caused by animals scurrying around, or himself from earlier today. Nothing is off, nothing is suspicious. Harry isn’t even that cold anymore, warmed by the presence of a body against his chest. When he steps past the tree line, he finds the sun setting. The sky is streaked in colour, a cloudless sky allowing the colours to stretch eternally. A few stars twinkle in the distance, and Harry feels himself smiling. 

He finds the path, marvels for a second that the snow on the path from yesterday has all melted away, and walks them both up to the front door. Malfoy is still asleep against him, making opening the door exceedingly difficult. Harry manages to work his wand out of his sleeve and unlocks it, and then struggles to remember a spell to open the door for him. After about a minute of standing there useless, it blurts out of him. The door swings inwards, wide enough for both Harry and Malfoy to get through. Harry tightens his grip around him and turns sideways so they fit. He carries Malfoy into the living room and plops him onto the couch. 

Harry shuffles things around and moves Malfoy into a sitting position, wraps him in a blanket, slides on a pair of hedgehog gloves that were just sitting there despite Harry never having seen them before, and then walks to the kitchen. He turns the stove on and places a pot on the hot plate. His hands move in a blur of motion, not really paying attention to what he’s doing. Eventually, his brain realises that he’s in the process of making tomato soup. Harry shakes his head but continues. He doesn’t know why he’s decided to play mother to Malfoy, but he’s too far gone to stop now. Besides, the man is seriously injured and tired, so he’s not exactly going to have the energy to read into this. Not that there’s anything _to_ read into, of course. 

He carries the bowl of soup over to the couch and places it on the coffee table Malfoy had transfigured days ago. He then turns to wake Malfoy, but finds him already awake and watching Harry with an interesting expression on his face. The man doesn’t say anything though, simply holds his gloved hands out for the bowl. Harry swallows but does as told, and then moves away to sit on the table. Malfoy sits for a second before moving—pulling the atrocious and fluffy gloves further onto his hands, not off as Harry expected—taking the first mouthful of soup and practically moaning. Harry watches as he begins shoveling the soup into his mouth, and has to stand up. Malfoy doesn’t seem to notice, continuing to eat. 

The thoughts of Malfoy starving at the bottom of that hole bring back memories. Long suppressed memories of his childhood. They feel like they happened to another person, but they didn’t. Harry shudders as he remembers lying awake for hours, staring at the ceiling of his cupboard while his stomach rumbled. There’s nothing quite like being rejected food. He swallows thickly again and rushes into the bathroom. While he was alone in the cottage not doing anything yesterday, he’d gone prodding around the cupboards. 

It’s amazing, the things he found. Most of it was useless junk that looked pretty but served no practical purpose, but some of it was much more useful. Like the Muggle first aid kit in the bathroom. Harry pushes open the door without much thought and walks over to the sink. He pulls the cabinet open and withdraws the red bag. When he looks through it quickly, he finds exactly what he needs. Closing the cabinet with a wordless spell, Harry grabs the bag and walks down the corridor back to the living room. 

Malfoy is sitting up still, finishing the bowl of soup. He only looks up when instead of awkwardly perching himself on the coffee table, Harry sits next to him on the couch. Concern flickers across Malfoy’s eyes, but when Harry holds up the first aid kit Malfoy seems to understand and relaxes. Harry pulls his wand out of his sleeve again and siphons the dirt off Malfoy’s skin with a _tergeo._ Once the wounds are clean and bright against pale skin, Harry shuffles closer and inspects them. All Aurors went through mandatory first aid training, and even though he isn’t a Healer by a long stretch, he knows enough to help Malfoy.

After cleaning the wounds and using spells to do a whole range of healing things Harry doesn’t fully understand, he bandages the cuts. Some only require a medical plaster and a bit of antiseptic cream, but some are more severe. Like the deep cut on Malfoy’s arm. 

“I don’t know how much I can do for this one without any dittany, Malfoy,” Harry admits. 

The man next to him just nods, and speaks for the first time since arriving at the cottage. “I didn’t think you’d do _anything,_ let alone tackle that thing.”

“Of course I would!” Harry leans away and furrows his brow. “You thought I’d just leave you like that?”

“Well…” Malfoy rubs the back of his neck and looks away. 

Silence lapses over them. It doesn’t take long for Malfoy to break it. “It’s fine, once I have my energy back I’ll be able to do it myself.”

Harry tilts his head in a disbelieving gesture but returns to the wound anyway. Instead of wrapping it up to heal like the others, he merely wraps it for support so it doesn’t bleed overnight. The bandage sticks to the injury instantly, and Harry worries how bad it really is. He springs up, bag falling to the ground. He’s an idiot. He’s sat there, feeding Malfoy and dressing his wounds, but he hasn’t given him anything for the pain! Harry rushes into the kitchen and throws open one of the cupboards, pulling out a vial of Calming Draught and pain relief. 

He doesn’t say anything as he paces back to Malfoy, holding out the bottles for him to take. Malfoy looks at them and then unstoppers them. He knocks them back without any questions, and extends them out for Harry to take again. Harry charms them to float into the kitchen to be dealt with later, and then reaches for Malfoy. He flinches away instinctively, but then moves into the touch. Harry smiles reassuringly as he scoops Malfoy up once again, and carries him into the bedroom at the end of the hallway. Malfoy wraps his arms around his neck again, and Harry tries not to think about it too hard. 

It’s only fair that Malfoy gets the bedroom today. He’s slept on dirt for what, three nights? Harry can suck it up on the couch for a while as Malfoy heals and recovers, even if it’s only for a few days. He can’t push the door open when he arrives, so he’s thankful when Malfoy removes a hand from around his neck to open it for him. Harry walks through the door, casts a wandless spell to clean the bedding and organise the room from the mess he’s caused, and carefully places Malfoy onto the bed. He walks over to the closet where Malfoy’s clothes are stored, pulls out what looks like silken pyjamas, and uses a spell to swap what Malfoy’s wearing with his back turned. He catches the ruined clothes as they fly towards him, and tucks them under his arm. 

Harry steps back to the bed and pulls the sheets back. He rearranges a compliant Malfoy to lay under them, and then draws the covers up over his body. Malfoy looks almost normal like this—clean, fed, and at peace—except for the numerous cuts over his neck and face. Harry watches as Malfoy shuffles around and pulls the duvet up over his shoulder, before turning and leaving the room. He thinks he hears a muffled ‘goodnight’ behind him, but he isn’t sure. 

“Goodnight,” he replies anyway. 

When Harry walks past the bathroom on his way to the living room, he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He’s a mess. Even more so than Malfoy was when he’d first found him. Today alone he had walked through the forest three times, trudged through sodden snow, and fallen over in a pile of leaves. To say he was dirt streaked would be an understatement. He sighs. There isn’t time for a shower, so he’ll have to settle with cleaning charms. It’s all Malfoy got anyway. Harry waves his wand over himself and relaxes a bit when his reflection comes back clean. He continues to the living room, turns the lights off, and promptly flops onto the couch.

The blankets smell like Malfoy, and Harry tries not to think about that fact as he snuggles deeper into them. He shuffles around to get comfortable, and slips his hand under the cushion beneath his head. It hits something. Something hard, and thin, and long. Harry sits up groggily and lifts the cushion up. It’s a wand. Malfoy’s wand. Well that would explain why he couldn’t get out of the hole. Without a wand, he wouldn’t have been able to do anything. He would have been a Muggle, trapped in a dirt hole. That only makes everything worse, and Harry’s heart aches for him. 

He needs to return it. And damn if that isn’t a familiar sentiment. Harry picks up the wand, swings his legs off the couch and stands up. He stretches and walks back through the cottage to the bedroom. At least Malfoy will be asleep this time, so there won’t need to be any awkward conversation like last time. Last time, Harry had given Malfoy his wand right after the trial. His defense for Malfoy and his mother cleared both of their names, and Harry had only thought it was right to return his wand. So Harry had walked up to him and given it to a bone weary Malfoy, not unlike current Malfoy, and they’d briefly spoken about regrets. There’s none of that now as Harry slips into the dark room and places it on the bedside table. 

He’s infinitely glad about that as he makes his way back to the living room, and burrows himself under the blankets. 


	9. Chapter 9

**  
**

[Two red cups of wassail/Christmas punch with dried orange and cinnamon sticks]

**December 9th 2003 - Tuesday**

Draco takes a step forward, arm reaching for the Cabinet’s doors. The smooth wood is soft and silky beneath his hand as he grips the edge of the door. His fingers dance across it, inching towards the swirling, silver handles. He wraps his hand around it, cold metal beneath his skin. He takes a deep breath, calming his racing heart, and pulls the door open. The inside of the Cabinet is just as perfect as the outside, and Draco takes a second to marvel at the interior. It’s so incredibly detailed and flawless; something born from magic. 

He slowly turns the other handle and coaxes the second door open, not hesitating but rather enjoying the smooth slide of wood against wood. Draco swallows and looks around, the courtyard dark in the night. The only thing lighting it is a single streetlamp, sleek and black with a strong white glow. He blinks his tired eyes and turns back to the Cabinet, a strange sense of urgency overcoming him. He needs to open the doors. Needs to investigate. Needs to try this new idea. 

Draco doesn’t know when he’d thought of this new idea, but he can’t get it out of his head. It’s wedged there, stuck amongst his other thoughts. He’d tried to tell Potter, but the Saviour had rolled his eyes and said something about being irresponsible. Draco hadn’t liked that, so he’d snuck out to try it by himself. He absentmindedly strokes his wand in its holster around his waist as he pulls the second door the rest of the way open. It’s difficult to see inside the dark Cabinet, and the streetlamp is at the wrong angle to illuminate the interior. His wand slides from the holster easily, and when he casts his _lumos_ it’s a dull blue. Not very strong, but good enough for this. 

His fingers twitch, like the only thing they want to do is _move._ Draco allows it, stretching them out and listening as the knuckles crack. He doesn’t look at them as he reaches his right hand out and brushes it across the wood. It’s so unbelievably smooth, and Draco can’t get past it. He smiles as he strokes the interior and moves his left hand to join his right. As they brush over the Cabinet in tandem, Draco is filled with the sense that that’s not enough. Nowhere near enough. 

He doesn’t need to work out what his body wants, he just follows the urge. His head leans forward, inching towards the opening of the Cabinet. Draco manages to poke his head into the Cabinet, his shoulders catching on the beams the doors join to. It’s so dark, his wand not able to reach inside. It’s still not enough. No. Draco hunches his shoulders, rounding them off and making them smaller. He shoves against the doors and wooden beams, bashing his skin against the hard edges. It doesn’t hurt at all, and Draco slowly forces his torso into the Cabinet. 

With his shoulders brushing against the very edge of the Cabinet’s interior, Draco knows that he isn’t finished. Not yet. Only half of his body is inside, and all of his body needs to get in for this to work. Draco twists uncomfortably in the enclosed space, sliding himself in further and creating a sliver more room. In the dark, it’s easy to fit, and he manages to pull his legs into the Cabinet alongside his torso. His feet don’t quite make it in, hovering outside in the cold night. He exhales the air from his lungs—feels his body shrink just that half of an inch more—and his toes scrape the inside edge of the Cabinet. 

There’s a second where nothing happens, a second of Draco just sitting there in the middle of a quiet courtyard. But then the sky changes colour, darkening further to pitch black, the streetlamp flickering off rapidly and everything shutting down. The doors close with a bang, and Draco opens his eyes to a cell. It’s even darker than the Vanishing Cabinet was, with walls covered in scratch marks and iron bullets caught in metal. It’s grimy; moss, dirt, and blood sliding down the metal sheets that make up the walls. Draco stands up from where he’d fallen to the floor and glances around, strangely calm. He feels unattached to this, like nothing happening is permanent. He’s calm as he turns to see a Dementor. It glides past him, not stopping to look for even a second. It floats down the passageway, screams following it in its wake. 

Another soon arrives, but this one does not pass Draco by. It glides through the bars at the front of the cell and right up to him, its horrible face covered in black cloth. Draco knows that beneath the cover, a mouth waits to Kiss him. He doesn’t know how he knows this for sure, but he can feel it. The Dementor breathes deeply, pulling the happiness and life from Draco’s body. There isn’t any to take. It’s evidently confused and makes a sound like nails on a chalkboard, but it turns and glides away all the same. Screams arise as it passes the other people, and Draco walks backwards. His back collides with the wall, his skin catching on the embedded bullets as he slides down the metal. Blood drips from the spikes on the ceiling and lands on his head, and when Draco looks up his head slams against the spikes. There isn’t time to scream.

*~*~*~

“ _Hey_ , Malfoy, _hey_.” 

A hand is carding through Draco’s hair, stroking through the strands and massaging his scalp carefully. 

“ _Malfoy_ , wake up.”

Draco’s ears are ringing, the sound high pitched and god awful. There’s something warm in his hand, pressed tight against his skin. 

“Come on now, it was only a nightmare.”

The ringing dies down a bit, and Draco becomes aware of breathing next to him. He immediately tenses. 

“Malfoy, it’s just me.”

Draco’s eyes flutter open. The room around him is dark, but not _as_ dark as the dream. 

“There you are,” someone to his right says. Draco turns his head slowly and nearly jumps out of his skin. Potter is crouching on the floor next to the bed, one hand in Draco’s hair and the other gripping Draco’s own hand as if it’s an anchor. “I was wondering when you’d wake.”

There’s a smile on Potter’s face as he stands, and Draco wonders what he’s thinking about; if it has anything to do with him. The expression reaches up to his eyes, and Draco feels like sinking into them. 

“How are you?” Potter asks, hand resuming its stroking. 

Draco bites back a moan. He loves having his hair played with, and the pressure on his head is just perfect. “What happened?” His voice is scratchy and sore as he speaks.

“I asked first,” Potter says. His smile softens, just a lift at the corners of his mouth. 

Draco exhales through his nose. “Okay, I think. What happened?”

“You’re not going to give up, are you?” Potter asks, a weird smile on his mouth. Draco shakes his head. “Well, no need to look smug.” Potter teases and drops Draco’s hand. He instantly misses the warmth. “I woke up to you screaming, so I came in here to wake _you_ up.”

Draco wants to bury himself in the blankets. The nightmares only happen occasionally, but when they do they’re bad. He’s never been told he screams in his sleep though. 

“No need to be embarrassed, Malfoy,” Potter says, seemingly guessing where Draco’s thoughts were headed. “I get them too. I think we all do.”

Somehow, Draco knows that Potter is referring to the war specifically. To the people caught up in it with no way out. He nods in the silence. 

“Do you need anything? A glass of water, maybe?” 

Draco nods his acceptance and sinks under the duvet again. Pain in his ribs makes him groan, and Potter looks back from the doorway with a start. 

“My ribs-”

“I’ll get you another potion,” Potter says, turning back and continuing his way out of the room. 

Draco closes his eyes, his heart thumping in the dark room. Azkaban is far from a new dream, but the Vanishing Cabinet is. He’d managed to work most of that fear and anxiety away when he was seventeen, after he’d botched his mission but had somehow managed to stay alive. The combination of the two was horrendous, like an icy fist closing around his heart. Draco shudders and is suddenly aware of how cold he is. The sound of running water fills the cottage, and Draco tries not to think of the ocean he could hear in the dream. Azkaban is perched on an island after all, nearly impossible to escape from. 

Suddenly overwhelmed in the dark, sitting in a room so unlike his own in London, after a dream of Azkaban, Draco grabs his wand from the bedside table. He casts a _lumos_ so strong he flinches. The light pushes to every corner of the room, dispelling the darkness and the secrets within. Draco takes a calming breath and forces his heartbeat to slow. He’s safe.

“Here you go,” Potter murmurs as he shuffles into the bedroom. He doesn’t say anything about the lights, passing Draco a flask and adjusting his grip on the glass of water.

Draco nods his thanks and removes the stopper, knocking the foul tasting potion back. He doesn’t know why Potter insists on this brand, especially not when there are ones that taste the way vanilla smells and work just as well. Still, it gets the job done. He gestures for the glass in Potter’s hands, and he watches as the other man jumps and rushes to pass it to him. Draco smiles to himself as a blush creeps across Potter’s skin and takes a big sip. 

He washes the taste from his mouth, swallowing the water in gulps and draining the glass in a matter of seconds. Potter shakes his head and Draco glares.

“What?” He deadpans. 

Potter holds up his hands. “Nothing! You just-” He sighs. “You remind me a lot of…”

“Of _who_ Potter?”

He chews his cheek. “I don’t think you’d want to know.”

Draco huffs. “Well, if you’re finished insulting me, you can go back to bed.”

Potter’s eyes widen, and Draco watches, amused, as he backtracks.

“No! No, I’m ah, I’m good here. You might need me for something else?”

Draco bites back a smile, trying not to laugh at the man who woke him up with a hand in his hair. “I’m good Potter, but thanks.”

Potter pauses but nods after a second. “It’s too late to go back to sleep, so maybe I could go out and investigate where you fell in?”

“Why are you phrasing that as a question?”

Potter scrubs the back of his neck. “You have the right to say no, I’m meant to be your carer while you’re injured.”

Draco scoffs. “No you’re not,” he says firmly. “I’m not your responsibility, I’m perfectly capable of surviving by myself.”

He looks like he’s going to make a retort, but instead just gives in. “If you’re sure.”

“Absolutely.” He tries to take another sip of his water, only to find the glass still empty. He blushes furiously at making such an idiot of himself. “ _Go_.”

Potter backs out of the room, flicking his wand and sending the empty flask and glass floating out after him. 

With Potter safely out of the room, Draco flops over onto his stomach and inhales a shuddering breath. His nightmares are hard to deal with, and he’s astounded he didn’t break down crying in front of Potter. His pride would have caved beneath him, he would have been on equal footing with Potter. He shivers, suddenly aware of how cold the December morning is. Biting back a sob, he rearranges himself and kicks the covers over him. He clutches at the duvet, pulling it as high up his body as possible. 

There’s no doubt in his mind that Potter has left by now. He hopes he finds something, finds a reason as to why Draco was left at the bottom of a hole. It’s awful to think about. Draco swallows, and his emotions finally get the best of his mind. Eyes burning, a single tear squeezes itself out of his left eye and tracks down his cheek. He pushes back the urge to wipe it away, instead allowing more to follow. They run down his face, salty and cold against his warming skin. Crying has always been an embarrassing thing to do, something shunned as he was growing up. Tears were only allowed for devastating injuries, not something so trivial as nightmares. Draco now knows differently though, and while it’s challenging, he is trying to rewrite the almost instinctive response of humiliation. 

The tears fall freely now, sliding down his skin and soaking into the pillow. Distantly, Draco’s mind flickers with the fact that the pillow still smells like Potter. 

*~*~*~

Yesterday was a milestone, Draco thinks as he walks to the kitchen. Not only was it the day Potter pulled his shit together and hauled Draco out of the hole, but it also allowed Draco a rare moment to see inside the other man’s head. Not so much that Potter willingly shared information, but more in the fact that actions speak louder than words. 

To start with, Potter had saved Draco’s life. He’d clearly spent hours thinking about it, spent the whole day searching for him, and then only found him as he was walking back to the cottage. Draco may have been slightly out of it yesterday, but he isn’t now. The fact that Potter literally pulled him out of the hole hasn’t escaped him. Draco knows Potter’s wand was in his pocket—he felt it shift against him when Potter had pushed the door to the cottage open, the magic resonating through his body even in sleep—which means that Potter either chose to lift him out manually to protect his scraped up body… or that he was so focused on helping that he forgot he even _had_ his wand. 

Potter had carried him all the way to the cottage too, and after walking for hours and hauling a barely-conscious person from a dirt pit, he would have had to have been exhausted. Draco bites his lip as he rummages through the cupboards. He eventually decides to heat up some pizza he could have sworn wasn’t there a few days ago, and goes about getting a plate out. He also pulls a slow cooker from a cupboard and sets it on the stove. He’s been craving some punch, something warm to soothe him from the inside out. He grabs the ingredients and combines them in the cooker, and magically heats it up within a couple of minutes. There’s no way he was waiting for two hours, even if Christmas punch tastes better when done the proper way. He pours it into a mug, and sets it on the counter to wait for his pizza.

Potter’s arms would have been straining, muscles cramping under the exertion of lifting Draco’s body, yet he didn’t do anything to help himself. He could have used a spell to lessen Draco’s weight, hell, he could have floated Draco in front of him! But he didn’t. He’d muscled it out in true Gryffindor nature, and hauled Draco’s—admittedly, quite frail—frame all the way back to the cottage. 

Draco thinks harder as he moves over to the couch once his pizza is cooked, plate and mug in hand. Potter had healed all of Draco’s wounds. He had dragged his wand over his skin, and Draco had sat there shaking with the pain of it. Potter had been so caught up in removing the cuts and bruises that he’d forgotten the pain potions. Draco had grit his teeth, refusing to show any sign of pain. He was lucky to be healed so thoroughly as it was. Potter used a combination of Muggle and magical healing methods, and the bandages still stretched across his skin feel somehow foreign. 

The cut on Draco’s arm is sore, but he hasn’t had to replace the bandage yet. There’s a red splotch across the fabric, but he doesn’t think it’s bad enough to warrant changing. Despite saying he would heal it himself after regaining enough energy, Draco has no idea how to. He doesn’t know where to start, let alone how to completely heal it! He shakes his head at himself and bites into the pizza. It’s warm in his mouth, and he chews slowly, savouring it. He takes a sip of his punch and nearly moans. It’s got just the right level of cinnamon mixed in, and it furthers the warmth spreading through his body. He drinks some more and puts it back down. 

Draco’s thoughts take a turn, and he is left remembering how he’d thrown himself at Potter and squeezed the life out of him. He was so relieved to see a face staring at him that he hadn’t cared about anything else for a long time afterwards. Now though, he realises that what at the time seemed to be him clutching at something warm and solid, was probably interpreted as a hug. And, it kind of was. Draco doesn’t _do_ hugs very often, preferring more ‘refined’ means of affection, as his mother would put it. Now though, a day later, he realises it was _definitely_ a hug. 

To be fair to himself, he wasn’t the one to scream the name of his age-long rival. Potter had shouted his name as loud as humanly possible before running to the edge of the hole. Although, now that he thinks about it, he had been the one to use a given name first. Potter had fallen into the hole, and Draco had been so excited to see another person he’d forgotten the nature of their relationship; meaning, there isn’t much of one at all. 

Draco shakes himself out of it. It’s not important what he himself did. He takes another bite of his pizza, enjoying how it warms him up from the inside out. Of course, there’s always the part where Potter told him that he’d never let him die like that. Draco pauses. Why _had_ Potter said that? Of course the man would let Draco starve at the bottom of a pit, he was a Death Eater! 

Draco scowls. _Was_ being the operative word. He knows all too well that Potter would never hold his past against him, he never does. While sixteen year old Draco might deserve it for being an idiot—despite the intentions and the whole ‘acting under duress’ thing—23 year old Draco doesn’t. No, he’s worked his arse off to pick himself back up after the war, and Potter has been around for nearly all of it. Hell, Potter had saved him even _before_ he’d started improving himself, dragging him out of magical fire and onto the back of a broom. Draco feels warmth bloom in his stomach at the thought of Potter caring enough about him to risk his own life; multiple times too. 

Then there’s the fact that Draco’s wand mysteriously appeared on his bedside table. It was definitely not there last night, probably still under the bloody cushion on the sofa, leaving only one solution. Potter moved it. They really have come full circle. Draco remembers the awkwardness when Potter had given him his wand back for the first time. The stilted-ness of it all, hands touching weirdly and looks of confusion shared. Draco hadn’t known why Potter was even giving it back to him at the time. He’d thought it had been due to Potter’s hero complex, forcing him to help even the weakest cases. 

Now though, he knows it’s much deeper than that. Potter—while he does have a thing for saving people—is really just trying to make sure no one feels the way he did as a child. He knows first hand how hatred can cling to one’s heart and slowly pull it to shreds, and will do anything to prevent others experiencing it. It was too late for Draco by then, having lived with a barely-human man bent on genocide for a year, but that hadn’t stopped Potter trying. 

If returning Draco’s wand the first time had been awkward, this second time is just confusing. Why hadn’t Potter made a big deal out of it? Draco frowns, trying to figure it out as if solving a case. He knows Potter has a need to help others, that it for some reason extends to him, and that the man hates unnecessary confrontations. Maybe he didn’t want Draco to feel helpless without his wand, but didn’t want to have to go through the awkwardness of last time all over again? It’s possible. 

Draco sighs and heaves himself up, taking his plate and mug back to the kitchen. There’s a pile of dishes and cutlery scattered over the benches and in the sink, and he figures there’s nothing better to do. He moves the plates and bowls out of the sink and turns the water on. The faucet groans before water spills out, and Draco waits for it to turn hot. Once done, he plugs the drain and pours some dishwashing liquid into the sink. He flicks his wand and sends the other dishes flying towards him, manipulating them to land carefully in the sink. The water splashes onto them and bubbles, soft foam rising on top. 

He smiles, humming along as he sets about cleaning up. In theory, this is not something he should enjoy at all. It’s dirty and grimy, wet, and something a house-elf should do. That doesn’t change the fact that it’s warm water on a freezing day, and satisfying to make the unusable plates serve a purpose again. He supposes it’s related to his own history and the _need_ to make himself worthy, but doesn’t want to think about it too strongly. 

*~*~*~

“I’m back!” Potter calls out, voice loud in the silent and still cottage. 

Draco tries not to think about how domestic it is, announcing your arrival back home, and shouts to acknowledge it. Potter’s footsteps echo around off the walls, and Draco finds himself listening to them from the bedroom. The idea had been to sleep some more, to try to recover some strength. Instead, he’d just sat there in bed, unable to really do much at all. He felt empty without Potter, unusually warm and cold at the same time. 

“Where are you?!” Potter asks loudly from the other side of the cottage. 

“Bedroom!” Draco’s voice is hoarse, and his head spins.

“Here you are,” Potter says as he opens the door a moment later. He approaches Draco in the bed, mouth open and ready to speak. Then he pauses, closes his mouth, opens it again. “You’re very pale.”

Draco waves a hand, dismissing it. “I’m a Malfoy, I’m _always_ pale.”

“No, sick pale. How are you feeling?”

Draco sighs. He’s not going to be getting out of this very easily. “Slightly faint, I guess…”

‘You guess?!” Potter steps closer, hands twitching by his sides. He seems to hesitate for a second, and then his hand is reaching for Draco. 

Draco tries to flinch away, but that only makes Potter raise his other hand and hold him in place. Potter’s hand presses into his forehead, his skin cold against Draco’s. He tries not to flinch at the physical contact, thinking back to last night when Potter’s hands were all over him. 

“You’re burning up,” Potter murmurs. He snaps his fingers and a glass appears in his hand, he quickly fills it with an _aguamenti_. “Here,” he says, pressing it towards Draco. 

He huffs, but accepts the water and drinks from it greedily. In two gulps the glass is empty, and Potter refills it without comment. Draco sips at this one, unaware of how thirsty he was until water was presented to him. 

“Are you dizzy? Have you eaten?” The concern in Potter’s voice is unnerving. 

“Of course I’ve eaten, I’m perfectly capable of caring for myself, _as I said before you left_.” 

Potter rolls his eyes. “You didn’t answer my first question.”

Draco shakes his head and winces. “I guess so…”

Potter sighs. He steps closer still, his legs bumping into the bed frame, and fusses around with the covers. Draco tries to bat his hands away, but Potter is persistent and rearranges the blankets. It _is_ a lot warmer once Potter has finished, but Draco feels too _hot_ for it. 

“Too warm,” he mumbles. 

Potter says nothing and leaves the room. Draco tries to push the covers off himself, but they hold firm. He must have reinforced them somehow with a nonverbal spell. Draco wants to curse him as well as the gods. 

“Here,” Potter says as he walks back in. He paces towards Draco with a wet flannel in his clutch. 

“What do I want with that?” Draco asks, scrunching his nose up. 

“You have the beginnings of a fever, this will help.”

“No I don’t!”

Potter meets his stare with silence, and places the folded flannel on his forehead. Draco glares at him, but Potter doesn’t let up. 

“You do, and you’re not moving from this bed until you’re better.”

“It’s just a fever Potter, I’ll be fine.” Draco really doesn’t like the fuss. 

“You will be fine, but you aren’t right now. You were outside in the rain for days, Malfoy, it’s no surprise you’re unwell now.”

“You always were so stubborn…” Draco mutters. 

Potter laughs. “Nothing has changed.”

Draco sighs and settles under the blankets.

“Oh! I forgot! I was going to tell you something,” Potter rushes, evidently trying to distract Draco from himself. “There’s a Vanishing Cabinet in a town on the other side of the forest. I was going to bring it up a few days ago but I kept forgetting.”

Draco feels his blood begin to boil, with anger or the fever, he isn’t sure. “I found it,” he deadpans. 

“Why didn’t you say anything?!”

“ _I_ was at the bottom of a _hole_. How could _you_ possibly forget to mention that there’s a Vanishing Cabinet fucking identical to the one that got us into this mess?!” Draco is seething now, and he doesn’t even care. 

Potter rubs awkwardly at the back of his neck. “I don’t know, I guess I was always so busy thinking about it that I didn’t say it out loud?”

“Why was that a question?” Draco narrows his eyes. 

“You know what, don’t worry about it. You know now, and we can get on the same page.”

“You’re unbelievable,” Draco says through gritted teeth. “I’m sure you know more about it than me, you start.”

Potter lets out what appears to be a sigh of relief, and begins explaining everything he knows. He sounds like an Auror, listing everything methodically and not missing anything out. He’s apparently conducted a lot of tests on the Cabinet, and Draco finds himself listening intently. He should probably be sleeping, but this is much more interesting. 

Once Potter’s told him everything, Draco shares the little extra he knows. He’d love to get his hands on it again and run through more exams specific to Unspeakable work. Unfortunately, while he’s bed ridden he can’t see that happening very soon. Even so, there are multiple spells he’d like to try. On Friday, he had been distracted and a bit upset. He hadn’t been thinking straight and therefore not analytically. Not like Potter does. If he had, he wouldn’t have run away in search of Potter; he definitely wouldn’t have fallen into the damn hole. 

The purple and silver cotton is still in his pocket, he can feel it pressing into his thigh and wonders if it’s soaked through with mud. It probably is, given the fact that he hasn’t properly bathed in days. He shudders. He hadn’t realised that… 

Feeling dirty and gross, he makes to get up. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” Potter immediately says. 

Damn. Draco had forgotten he was sitting _right there_ , so lost in his thoughts as he was. “Going for a shower,” Draco snarls, almost daring him to deny that. 

“You can’t.” _How surprising_. “You’re injured and have a fever, cleaning charms exist for this exact purpose.”

Draco scowls. “Maybe so, but they aren’t as effective as actually showering. I’d like to wash my hair, for a start, and then exfoliate and moisturise and-”

“Okay okay! You sound like a girl, Jesus,” Potter cuts him off. 

“Again, I don’t know what ‘Jesus’ means Potter.” Draco sits up straighter, pushes the covers determinedly away from himself before realising the spell is still in place. “And quite frankly, I take offence to being called a girl. I have a very lovely cock that is quite masc-”

“Shut up!” Potter shouts, his face going exceedingly red. Draco hides his triumphant grin. It’s always so easy to get under his skin. “You can’t shower, but I can draw you a bath if you insist.”

“Why a bath? I won’t be able to wash my hair properly.” He doesn’t bring up the charms that clean bath water out _specifically_ so that people can wash their hair.

“You can sit down. I don’t want you falling because you’re dizzy and stubborn.” Potter sets his jaw and Draco knows he won’t budge. 

“Fine, now help me up.” His ears blush with the demand, but he’s too weak to stand up on his own and he still can’t get the bloody covers off of him. It’s amazing how fast his energy has drained. 

Potter doesn’t say anything but Draco knows him well enough to know Potter must feel smug about that. He grips Draco’ wrists firmly, his skin warm against his own. Draco tries not to sigh as he’s pulled up, Potter’s hands steady and ready to catch him should he fall. He must have removed the spell wordlessly and wandlessly. 

Draco manages to stand, and after a second Potter lets go. 

“Come on then, let’s get you to a bath.”

Draco loops an arm around Potter’s shoulders and hobbles along the corridor to the bathroom. Potter’s breaths are harsh and laboured, and Draco feels kind of guilty. Caught up as he has been in his own miseries, he has failed to notice Potter’s own cuts and the bags beneath his eyes. He swallows hard, he should have noticed that. 

When Potter pulls him into the bathroom and sets about running the water, Draco makes a decision. 

“You could join me?” Shit, that came out wrong.

Potter’s eyes widen. “Uh, w-what?!” He sputters. “J-join you? In a bath?!”

Draco shakes his head. “That’s uhm, not what I meant to say.” Even though it probably wouldn’t be the worst thing to happen to him… Fuck, where did _that_ thought come from? “Sorry, I uh, I just meant that you should shower too.”

Potter exhales deeply, and Draco realises he had stopped breathing. Interesting… 

“Well um, I’ll shower after you’ve gotten back to bed,” Potter says, rubbing at his neck as he so often does. There’s a hint of a blush on his cheeks, and Draco warms at the thought. And then he’s too hot again. 

Draco groans, shivering despite the warmth coursing through his body. He starts sweating, growing more and more uncomfortable as the seconds tick by. 

“You okay?” Potter asks, concern obvious in his voice. 

“I’ll be fine,” Draco says, trying to ignore the simultaneous heat flashes and goosebumps. He strips, pulling his shirt off quickly and turning around. Potter makes a weird noise—caught in his throat—before saying that he’ll be back shortly and fleeing from the room. Draco scoffs, pulls his sweatpants and underwear off in one go, and sinks into the bath. 

He’s sweating even in the water, but he knows he can’t let the fever get the best of him. It’s not the worst he’s had, not by far, and he should be able to shake it off. First though, he _really_ needs to wash his hair. 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! I got caught up Christmas shopping... Enjoy! Xx

**  
**  
[Red sweater with reindeer having a lot of fun, if you know what I mean]

**December 10th 2003 - Wednesday**

Harry rolls his shoulders, cringing as they crack. He hates sleeping on the couch, but it’s not like he had any other choice. Malfoy needed the sleep, especially with a fever added to the mix of injuries. 

He sighs, stretching his arms above his head. Massaging his shoulder and digging his fingers into the tender muscles, he stands up slowly. There’s not much to do today; the sky is black with clouds on the horizon, and Malfoy will probably need Harry to stay in the cottage _anyway_. Not that the Ferret will ever actually say that. 

Harry shakes his head. He shouldn’t call Malfoy that, hasn’t in a few days anyway, now he thinks about it. Malfoy doesn’t deserve the nickname anymore, that incident was literally a decade ago. Harry sighs. He’s going _soft._ It’s been ten days, and he’s already telling himself that Malfoy isn’t too bad. He heaves a breath and decides to shower. He feels gross. He never showered after Malfoy last night, too weirded out by the conversation. He definitely should have though. 

Harry makes his way into the bathroom, stripping his shirt off on the way. Something bumps into him, warm and solid. It flinches in surprise, and Harry realises it’s Malfoy himself. Malfoy, who just knocked into his bare chest in a dark hallway, and is now looking exceptionally… strange. 

“Watch where you’re going Potter!” 

“You’re the one who ran into me!” He takes a breath, holding his hands up. “I don’t want to argue, I just want to shower.”

Malfoy huffs. “I want to shower.”

Harry closes his eyes, willing himself to have some patience. He can _not_ deal with Malfoy this early. “Look Malfoy, you had a bath last night. There’s no way you're dirty already, and I haven’t showered properly since Monday. You can shower after me if you really must.”

Malfoy’s eyes narrow. “I guess…”

Harry nods and ducks around Malfoy, who follows him with his eyes and a sneer. Malfoy doesn’t like losing, especially not before he’s had his morning coffee. Harry smiles to himself and throws his shirt to the ground, turning to close the door behind him. He pauses.

“How are you feeling?” He asks with his head poked out the door. 

“What’s it to you?”

Harry tries not to snap. “You had a fever last night, how are you this morning?”

Malfoy shouts from the kitchen, “I’ll be fine once I’ve had caffeine and a potion.”

“We don’t have any fever potions?” Harry calls, suddenly unsure of that fact. 

“No, but I have a degree in potions. I can mix the ones we already have and make one that way.” Malfoy sounds incredibly smug, even if Harry can’t see his face. 

Harry closes the door, finishes stripping, and steps into the shower, pushing aside thoughts of Malfoy as he soaps up.

*~*~*~

Harry thinks about everything that’s happened in the past week and a bit. He goes over everything he’s seen and felt, and writes it all down. It’s been nearly a week since he’s updated his notes properly, and he thinks if he does he might feel more secure in his thoughts. He rifles around through all the cupboards and drawers he can, but doesn’t find his paper or his notebook. Sighing and running a hand through his hair, he realises they must be in the bedroom. Malfoy hasn’t _left_ the bloody room all day! He chews the inside of his cheek, and then decides to just walk in. Simple. Right? He gets a grip, stands up straight, and marches down the corridor to the bedroom. 

He raps his knuckles against the door three times in quick succession, and pushes the door open without waiting for a reply. Basic courtesy, but no room for a ‘no’. Harry pokes his head in and steps into the room, looking around and trying to remember where he might have put his papers. 

“Get out!” Malfoy screams, throwing something at Harry and narrowly missing. It hits the wall with a bang though, and Harry jumps out of his skin. His head snaps to Malfoy, finding his chest bare and flushed, and the covers pooled around his lap. Understanding dawns on him. 

“I'm so sorry!” Harry says, eyes wide at the thought of what Malfoy was doing. He draws his wand, summons his paper—which comes rattling out of the bedside table drawer—and darts from the room. 

Harry closes the door with a bang, locks it with a standard charm, and flees back to the living room. He is panting by the time he sits back on the couch, all thoughts of processing and relaxation long gone. His mind races alongside his heart, and images flash to the forefront of his mind. All of them featuring a naked Malfoy, expanses of pale skin, and hands moving slowly. Harry’s blood warms and moves around his body, draining from every available limb and flooding to his cock. It fills quickly, and Harry bites his lip to hold in a groan. 

He absolutely does _not_ want to think about this. Doesn’t want to do what his body so desperately is telling him to. He hasn’t had the chance to… _relieve his stress..._ since being thrown away from London. It’s not that he hasn’t wanted to, he just couldn’t bring himself to do it with Malfoy in the cottage. And then when Malfoy _hadn’t_ been here, Harry had been so worried about him that he hadn’t been in the mood. But now, _now_ he’s been presented with a picture of Malfoy beautifully flushed and desperate. A part of Harry wishes the blankets hadn’t been there, even as the rest of him is trying to calm himself down. 

Harry sinks his teeth into his lip. His erection presses against the front of his jeans, and the pressure nearly makes him groan. There’s no way he can do this. He can’t even pretend that this won’t have consequences. If he does this, the way he thinks about Malfoy will completely change. Sure, he’s noticed Malfoy looks stunningly fit, but there’s a massive difference between thinking that and actually getting off while picturing him. Harry sighs, hips thrusting automatically against his jeans. There’s no stopping this then. 

He closes his eyes and allows his hand to trail down his chest. Goosebumps rise to the surface of his skin, and he circles a nipple. It pebbles immediately, already sensitive from the December air. His shirt is in the way, and his hand slips under the hem. He moans at the contact of his hand on his chest, and his fingers press into his stomach. They climb back up his chest and pinch his nipples, and his cock throbs in his pants. There’s no delaying this, he’s too tightly wound. 

Harry presses his lips together and palms himself through his jeans. His fingers pinch his nipple harder, and he clenches his thighs. His hand rubs slowly over himself, and he’s had enough teasing already. He really needs this, his body is aching for it. 

Harry reaches for his button and slips it loose, tugging the zip down the second he can. His underwear doesn't hide anything, and his cock is a bulge clearly visible through the flaps of denim. Without thinking twice, Harry pulls his jeans down, lifting his hips from the couch cushion and sliding them down to the middle of his thighs. His hand seeks out his cock, and he roughly palms it. His hips buck up into his hand and he moans quietly. Harry’s head falls back as he slides his fingers under the elastic. 

When his hand first touches his erection, it takes everything he has not to groan in pleasure. He can’t be loud, Malfoy is just a corridor away. Malfoy, who is flushed and sweaty and beautiful. Harry closes his eyes tightly, focussing on the bare chest he caught a glimpse of. He imagines Malfoy’s nipples, sees them pale pink in his mind. They harden, and he sees Malfoy reach for them to tug at the sensitive skin. Harry moans softly and his fingers wrap around his cock. 

His hand slides slowly down his shaft, trapped by his underwear. He’s not going to last long, and he doesn’t see the point in even pretending otherwise. He can hear his pulse in his ears, still racing from walking in on Malfoy. Harry imagines sitting between the blond’s legs, kissing up the insides of his thighs and making him writhe in pleasure. He sighs and moves faster, tightening his grip. He twists his hand at the head of his cock, his hips thrusting up against the pressure. 

Malfoy is now on him, leaning over him and kissing him as he aligns their hips. Harry bites down on his hand, stifling his groans. He imagines the blond rocking against him, panting into his mouth. He moves faster still, feeling his orgasm rapidly approaching. Harry chases his release, desperate to come despite only just starting. He sees Malfoy move and take his cock into his mouth, and imagines him swirling his tongue around the head. Harry squeezes himself at the same time, and explodes over his fist. 

He shakes in the aftershocks, mind totally blissed out and blank. Harry doesn’t think he’s ever come that quickly in his life—apart from maybe when he was fifteen. Harry does nothing but breathe for a second, letting his body cool down and his blood redistribute. He pats around on the couch for his wand, and once he finds it he casts a cleaning charm over both himself and the couch beneath him. He tucks himself back into his pants and pulls his jeans back up, deciding not to think about what he’s just done.

Harry runs his hand through his hair, tugging at it in annoyance. Now he has even more he needs to write about. To believe he’d thought he was going pretty well considering everything that’s happened. 

He finds the piece of paper creased on the floor, and smooths it out. He pulls a pen from behind one of the couch cushions and clicks the end. Harry sticks it in his mouth and places the paper on the coffee table. He rearranges the way he’s sitting and kneels on the floor before reading over what he’s already got written down. 

The lists are missing so much it’s not even funny, and Harry’s amazed it’s taken him so long to update it. He scribbles down some more dot points, adding Malfoy’s incident with the hole, the new information about the Cabinet, the people he saw in the forest, Malfoy’s fever and injuries, and what just happened. Now he’s thinking about it, he really needs to update _Malfoy_ too… Sure, they’ve talked about the Cabinet, but so much has happened and he’d totally forgotten about it until just now. 

Writing in the left column under the heading ‘thoughts’, Harry jots down more complicated notes on every theory he has. He has multiple thoughts about the hole, all of which he needs to talk to Malfoy about, and a couple more on the Vanishing Cabinet back in the courtyard. They’re hard to write down, and Harry finds himself chewing the end of his pen more often than actually writing. 

Eventually, he manages to finish that section and moves over to the right column titled ‘feelings’. This one is going to be a much bigger mess. Underneath his notes on feeling lonely and his worry about not getting back to London, he scrawls a ton of notes out about Malfoy. He writes about how terrified he was when Malfoy disappeared, how anxious he was when it began storming. He notes down his feeling of triumphant joy when he found him, quickly followed by despair at how Malfoy had had to survive for three days. Then he writes about his stubbornness, and how he totally blacked out and hauled Malfoy out by hand. 

He writes dot points about carrying him to the cottage, the spiral his mind went down. And then he skips forward, and Malfoy is injured and sick. He notes down how panicked he was, but how determined he was not to let Malfoy see it. Then he gets to the milestone that was half an hour ago. Walking in on Malfoy, and being so overcome with lust he couldn’t control himself. He’d managed to get away from him, but wasn’t able to stop himself once he was alone. That has to mean _something_ , and he writes about how confused he is now. 

It’s not like it’s much of a surprise; he’s known he’s bisexual for _years_ , and he already knew Malfoy was fit, but it still… irks him a little. Five years ago, he never would have done that. 

Harry pushes the thoughts away, having had enough of Malfoy being in his mind today. He numbers his thoughts and feelings, and flips the page over. Normally, he’d rule up a separate page, but his notebook is somewhere else in the bedroom, and there’s no way in hell he’s going back in there if he can avoid it. He begins writing out his dot points and notes, putting them into coherent sentences. This step normally takes a while and a lot of paper, but today he doesn’t have access to that. 

The mess that was in his head an hour ago is neatly arranged into sentences and paragraphs, and Harry is infinitely glad that it’s all sorted. His problems and worries look tiny when they take up a single line each, and while there’s quite a few lines, most of them are repetitive. The only part that is still a mess is his bit about Malfoy. He sighs, tugging at his hair. There’s nothing for it, he’s just going to have to ignore it. He shakes his head. He knows he can’t do that, he’s not _that_ stupid. Rubbing the back of his neck and shaking his hands out, he decides he needs to talk to Malfoy. Not about the mess of things Harry’s feeling, of course, but about his theories. 

He stands, stretches, and walks back to the bedroom. 

*~*~*~

Mistake. 

Mistake, mistake, mistake. Harry should run. He should slam the door closed again and flee back to the safety of the living room. 

Except, nothing’s really any different than normal. Malfoy is sitting on top of the bed, fully clothed again—and why is Harry slightly disappointed about that?—reading another one of his trashy, gay romance novels. Even so, all he can picture is Malfoy flushed and desperate. He swallows, knowing he has no other choice, and pushes the door further open. 

Harry coughs gently to announce his presence, and Malfoy immediately slams his book shut and hides it under the covers. 

“What do you want, Potter?”

Malfoy sounds tired and defeated, like he expects Harry to belittle him. Harry’s stomach twists. 

“To talk.”

“No. No, absolutely not,” Malfoy says, no room for argument. 

Harry never backs down from a challenge. “Relax, I can see your hands grabbing the sheets, I’m not here to talk about _that_.” He swallows, steps into the room a bit more. “There’s some stuff that happened while you were… _away_ , that I should tell you about, and some things I found yesterday.”

Malfoy sighs, removes his hands from the covers. “I guess we can talk then,” he mumbles. “Outside though.”

“Of course,” Harry readily agrees. He tries not to blush as he turns and walks from the bedroom. 

The living room feels weird, too cramped with both of them in the space. Harry realises that they haven’t really been alone together that much for a few days. He chews his lip. 

Malfoy takes a seat on one end of the couch, pushing aside Harry’s pillow. Harry forces himself to take a deep breath, picks up his paper from the coffee table before Malfoy can read anything off it, and sits as far away as he can while still being on the same couch. 

“Prepared a list did you?” Malfoy sneers, usual anger replaced by exhaustion. 

“Not deliberately,” Harry replies, not bothering to elaborate. “First, the day after you left, I went looking through the forest again.” Malfoy huffs, and Harry ignores it. “I stumbled across a group of,” he checks his paper, “11 wix, all in purple and silver robes. There was one person who was some kind of leader, I guess? There was a spell over their voice so I couldn’t figure out anything about the person by listening alone. They were talking about something time sensitive, and it sounded really important.” 

Malfoy interrupts, a focused look having taken over his features. He’s in work mode, and Harry tries not to smile. “What were all their interactions like with each other? Were they all united, or were there disagreements?”

“Definitely the latter. An argument broke out between a man and a woman, and it only stopped when the leader broke it up. When they made to leave, some of them hugged and others only shook hands.”

Malfoy frowns, lips pressing together. “That’s strange.” He sucks his bottom lip into his mouth. “Where were they in the forest?”

“Some clearing the leader created. It was a perfect circle, with the trees pushed to the edge. Once everyone left, the leader put them back into place.”

“That’s… strange,” Malfoy mutters. “You wouldn’t expect them to be so thorough… It sounds very organised.” He pauses, thinking. “That’s a strange place for a meeting, isn’t it?”

“Very,” Harry nods, agreeing. “Then again, they probably have no idea anyone is around right now, the village is deserted after all.”

“Yeah, but you also mentioned they were in purple and silver robes.” Malfoy frowns. “I’m so sick of those colours.”

“Mhmm,” Harry hums noncommittally. 

“You know, the colours are standing out to me for some reason,” Malfoy adds. “Something about them… I don’t know, I’ll think on it.”

Harry nods. “That’s not all though.”

Malfoy gestures for Harry to go on, and Harry begins explaining what he found while he was out yesterday. He watches as Malfoy’s mouth drops open, and rage takes over his features. 

“You’re telling me,” he seethes, “that that was deliberate! Planned?!”

Harry holds up his hands. “Not by me.”

“Well obviously!” Malfoy quips. “You’re seriously telling me… that someone did some extremely complicated magic, to add a magical core identifier to the hole?”

“Yep,” Harry says. “Not just that either; it was designed to only break for you. It had to sense everyone who came near the trap, and when it sensed you it caved in. I could have walked right over it and been fine.”

Malfoy growls threateningly, low in his throat. “The day I find out who did this-”

“But we already know,” Harry interjects. “It has to be the group I saw in the forest, doesn’t it? The colours match, they’re in the right place, and they said they’d intervene!”

“Maybe so, but you saw them _after_ I fell into the hole. They would have had to have already intervened!”

“Maybe they were talking about if I didn’t manage to find you?” Harry chews his lip. “Or maybe they aren’t connected at all and I’m overthinking everything.”

Malfoy doesn’t say anything, staring into space and thinking. “If what you say is true, how far does this plan go? Were we brought here deliberately? Was everything planned from the moment the Vanishing Cabinet came into the Aurors’ possession?”

Harry hadn’t thought about that. “Why would anyone want _us_ of all people to be trapped in the woods? That doesn’t make any sense!”

Malfoy’s face darkens. “I can guess why they’d want me to die alone in the middle of nowhere. You, on the other hand…”

“ _Malfoy_ ,” Harry starts. 

The man in question raises a hand, stopping Harry. “Maybe, maybe they think you’ll somehow erase my past and make me a better person?” The question is bitter, and Harry’s heart sinks. 

“Come on, Malfoy. You aren’t a bad person. If anything, you’re better than I am! You think things through, make connections I totally miss. You’re funny, nice, and okay, maybe sometimes you’re an arrogant prick, but the rest of the time you’re just… a person.” Harry takes a breath. Why the hell did he just say those things?

“You… really think that about me?” Malfoy asks, voice small. 

“Of course! I’ve worked with you for what, three years? All that time, you’ve been trying to become a better person, to let your past remain there.” Harry allows himself to think. “You aren’t a bad person Malfoy.”

Malfoy swallows, rubs his face with his fists. “Thank you, Potter. That means a lot.”

Harry nods numbly. He’ll need to update his list.

*~*~*~

Harry spends the rest of the afternoon sitting on the couch and mulling his life over. At this rate, he’s not going to be back in London for Christmas. They’ve only just had a breakthrough, and they’ve been here for ten days already! They aren’t even 100% positive that it _means_ anything. He huffs a breath out and fiddles with the sweater he’s wearing. It’s the one Ron gave him for Christmas last year, a beautiful red that stands out dramatically in the subtle colours of the living room. Harry doesn’t particularly like the picture on the front, but it’s comfortable and warm and reminds him of his friends. 

He sighs. He needs to talk to Malfoy about sleeping in the bed tonight. There’s no way on earth that Harry can spend another night on the couch. It’s only been two nights in a row, and his neck and back are already killing him. Harry should really talk to Malfoy about _sharing_ the bed, but he knows that that suggestion won’t be welcomed. Besides, is that really something Harry should do? No, it’s not. Rubbing at his eyes, Harry rolls over and moves his hand blindly across the coffee table. He knows he has a book somewhere on the table, the question is _where_. 

His hand makes contact with something, and he attempts to pick it up. Unfortunately, it doesn’t make it much further than that. He knocks it over, and realises that it wasn’t the book he was after. It was a glass, full of water. Harry swears and jumps up, running to the kitchen to grab a hand towel. He races back with a bright pink towel, picks up the book and the now-empty glass, and mops up the water 

Harry groans when he sees his book, and throws it to the couch in frustration. He just _had_ to go and do that, didn’t he. Cursing under his breath, he sends the towel flying back to the kitchen to plop into the sink. 

With his back turned, he only realises Malfoy has approached when he hears him murmur something. Harry whirls around to find the man with his wand pointed at Harry’s book, and he jumps in surprise. Malfoy is spelling the water away, siphoning it off to leave the book completely dry and undamaged. 

Harry stares for a second. “Thanks,” he mumbles. “Spilled some water…” 

“I can see,” Malfoy laughs. Something flashes in his eyes as he takes in Harry’s sweater. “What the fuck are you wearing Potter?”

Harry’s chest does that weird tightening thing again, but he doesn’t acknowledge it. “A sweater Ron gave me.”

“And it’s supposed to look like deer fucking?”

The bluntness of Malfoy’s question drags a laugh out of Harry. “It is.” 

Malfoy shakes his head. “It’s hideous.”

Harry nods in acknowledgment and is about to ask if he’d like one of his own, but decides it’s too friendly to ask something like that. Too casual and not teasing enough. “What were you doing?” He asks instead, trying to redirect the conversation away from his clumsiness and god-awful sweater. 

“If you must know,” Malfoy replies with none of the hesitation usually following that sentence, “I was working on some more paintings for Christmas gifts.”

“Really?” Harry asks, like a lunatic. Yes _really_ , he’s not going to have lied about that! Harry really needs some proper sleep. He’s also pretty sure he’s overreacting, and none of this was important. “How are they coming along?”

Malfoy, thankfully, doesn’t comment on Harry’s momentary loss of proper brain function. “Pretty well, I think. I finished the narcissus.”

“That one’s for your mother, right?” Harry asks gently, not wanting to push Malfoy too far.

“Yeah…” He trails off, lost in thought. “I started one of purple and black pansies too… I hope I don’t ruin it with the yellow…”

Harry has no idea about painting _or_ flowers, so he doesn’t say anything. 

Malfoy blinks and comes back to himself, drawing himself up higher and standing straighter. “I’m going to cook dinner, do you want any?”

“What’re you cooking?” Harry knows he’ll eat it anyway, but it’s always best to ask.

“Not sure yet,” Malfoy says as he makes his way to the kitchen. After a second of indecisiveness, Harry follows. “Thoughts on chicken parmigiana?”

“Love it,” Harry replies easily as he wanders after Malfoy. 

“Good, I wouldn’t have changed my mind even if you thought it was the worst thing on the planet.”

“Of course you wouldn’t have,” Harry chuckles. 

Malfoy busies himself preparing their dinner, and Harry stands there awkwardly, moving whenever he realises he’s in the way. Eventually, he decides to pour them both a glass of wine and takes them over to the dining table. He doesn’t think they’ve ever actually eaten at it, depressingly pushed against the wall as it is. Regardless, he sets the table and returns to help Malfoy plate the food. He sends them floating carefully to the table, and Malfoy walks slowly over to it. He looks uncertain for a moment, before sitting down. Harry breathes in relief, not knowing why he was so wound up over it. He’s glad Malfoy didn’t say anything. 

“Are you going to sit?” Malfoy asks, looking up at him. Harry blinks and realises he’s still standing there. He fights back a blush and hurriedly sits at the table. Feeling his skin warm anyway, he takes a sip of his wine. He has no idea if it works with their dinner, but it will make him less nervous, which has to be a good thing. 

“What were you reading?” Malfoy asks after a few moments of silent eating. 

The parmigiana is really good, and Harry finishes his bite before answering. “I actually hadn’t started it when I spilled water all over it,” he confesses. “It’s supposed to be about a man who becomes possessed by some vengeful spirit, and tries to take over the world.”

“Muggle?” 

Harry nods.

“Is the protagonist the _bad_ guy?” 

“Yep,” Harry says. “That was one of the reasons I picked it. It’s an interesting dynamic.”

Malfoy nods thoughtfully, takes another bite. “What are you thinking of doing for Christmas?”

Harry pauses, not expecting the sudden shift in conversation. “Honestly, I’m not sure. Normally I’d spend the day with Teddy, and then go to the Burrow for a family dinner. We might not be out of here on time this year though…”

“Don’t think like that!” Malfoy chastises. “I’m sure we’ll be back in London in time.”

Harry doesn’t agree, so he doesn’t respond. “What are _you_ thinking of doing?”

Malfoy purses his lips. “I don’t know.”

“Well, what do you usually do?”

“I _don’t_.”

“Really? Not at all?” Harry’s shocked.

Malfoy shakes his head. “Most people don’t want to spend their Christmas with an ex-Death Eater.”

“Not even your mother? What about your friends?” Harry’s heart sinks at the thought of him spending Christmas alone, feeling totally unwanted.

“I have tea with Mother sometimes,” Malfoy says after a beat. “Pansy, Theo, and Blaise… I love them, don’t get me wrong, I just don’t want to spend Christmas with them. They’re all so _busy_ all the time.” He stops. “Does that make me selfish?”

Harry shakes his head. “They aren’t entitled to your time, no.” He sips his wine. “That being said, you shouldn’t spend Christmas alone if you don’t have to.”

Malfoy doesn’t say anything, and the conversation lulls. 

“You mentioned Teddy,” he says eventually. “What’s he like?”

Harry beams. “He’s amazing! He’s so funny and excitable, so energetic.” 

“That’s great,” Malfoy says, slightly melancholy. 

Harry frowns, then realises why. “You’ve never met him, have you?”

Malfoy shakes his head. “No, I haven’t.”

“You should! He’s your cousin after all.”

Malfoy sighs. “Andromeda and I… aren’t exactly on friendly terms.”

Harry deflates instantly. “That might be a problem.”

Malfoy gives a dry laugh. “I know.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry says, needing to clear the air between them. “I shouldn’t have brought him up.”

“I’m the one who asked,” Malfoy says, shaking his head. “It’s fine, I just… As you said this morning, I’m trying to distance myself from my past, and I just feel like that’s another thing I’m being denied because of who I was forced to be five years ago.”

“That must really suck Malfoy.” Harry thinks for a moment. “What if you came over to see me one time, and I just happened to have Teddy with me?” 

Malfoy’s eyes lighten immediately, but he blinks and the expression is hidden away. “Do you think Andromeda would mind? What if Teddy told her?”

“He’s five, he’s not going to remember your _name_.”

“No, but he could tell her that some blond man was there with you.”

Harry laughs. “Then I’ll deal with it. You should be able to meet him.”

Malfoy smiles softly to himself. “Is he a Metamorphmagus like his mother?”

Harry allows himself to grin again. “He is. His hair is often turquoise, but Andromeda doesn’t allow him to make his eyes purple.”

Malfoy laughs at that. “That’s a great image.”

Harry smiles to himself, finishes his wine and stands up. Malfoy stands as well, and together they clear their plates and glasses away. 

“Hey Potter,” Malfoy calls out just as they’re going their separate ways. “Thank you.”

Harry smiles. “No problem Malfoy.” He turns to leave for the bathroom, but turns back at the last minute. “Also, it’s my turn in the bed, my neck is killing me.”

Malfoy’s smile drops off his face. “But I’m injured Potter. And I have a fever!”

“No you bloody don’t,” Harry argues. “You’ve taken _one_ potion today after this morning, and you haven’t complained at all about being uncomfortable.”

Malfoy huffs. “Fine, just don’t wake me when you shower in the morning.”

Harry chuckles. “Sure thing Malfoy.”

As Harry goes about getting changed and brushing his teeth, he tries not to think about how he’s going to sleep in the same sheets Malfoy wanked in this morning. He doesn’t succeed very well, and the fact that Malfoy definitely cast cleaning charms after being interrupted doesn’t sway his mind at all. He brushes his hair—as he does _every_ night; he’s not the barbarian Malfoy seems to think he is—and combs a moisturising mask into it. He leaves the bathroom and closes the door with a click, making his way to the bedroom. 

As he enters the room and walks to the bed, he can’t find it in himself to cast his own cleaning charms. He instead chooses to just slide under the covers and put his head on the pillow. It still smells like Malfoy. Harry sighs to himself and doesn’t think about it. He falls asleep quickly, out like a light. 


	11. Chapter 11

**  
**  
[Two mugs, one a Santa and the other a snowman, both doing a handstand] **  
**

**December 11th 2003 - Thursday**

Draco realises what it was about the colours while he’s fiddling with the dyed cotton at lunch. 

His friends all got matching bracelets about a year ago; silver bands with deep purple beads. He thought nothing of it at the time, but now that he’s surrounded by those exact colours, it feels like he’s been hit by a bludger. 

“Potter!” He exclaims, rising to his feet and basically jumping with excitement. This is a breakthrough, surely. Then again… the colours _do_ look quite lovely together, and this could all be a coincidence… No, he thinks, it must mean something. 

“Malfoy?” Potter says as he comes into the kitchen. “What’s got your spirits so high?” He adds once he actually looks at him. 

Draco tries not to flush, pushing past the question. “The colours!”

“Yes…?” He asks before Draco can even get to his point. 

“My friends all have matching bracelets in those _exact_ colours! The same identical shade of purple, even, which is quite unusual with most people not being able to tell the difference—”

“Wait. Your friends all have bracelets?” Potter’s brows furrow, coming down over his eyes. “What do they look like?”

“Oh, well, they have a silver string with purple beads.” Draco doesn’t see how this is totally relevant, but he’ll answer any question Potter asks him. 

Potter’s expression darkens. “Deep purple with lighter purple swirls? Separated with smaller black beads?”

Draco feels his eyes widen as his mind makes the connection. “Your friends have them too, don’t they.” It’s not a question, he already knows the answer. 

He watches Potter swallow, and has to turn away. Draco piles his plates from lunch into the sink and twists the handles, mind wandering as the water warms and fills up the sink. He soaps up the dishes and washes them by hand, and at some point Potter gives him more to clean. Draco is amazed Potter let’s the conversation drop as he has, given how monumental it is. Maybe Potter isn’t so bad. 

Eventually, Potter nudges him, shoulders bumping together gently. Draco is snapped out of his reverie. 

“I have an idea,” he says, pulling the plug out of the drain. Draco realises he’s been cleaning spotless dishes for the last couple of minutes. He closes his eyes, breathes deeply, and hopes his mind can keep up. 

“Oh?” He replies, trying to sound nonchalant and only slightly curious. 

“About who the people were in the forest clearing.” 

Draco’s heart stops for a second. “Already?”

“Well, it’s not totally perfect, I’m missing a couple, but I think I’ve got the majority worked out.” Potter sounds totally unaffected by this, but Draco is shocked he’s done it so fast. Maybe all those jeers about Potter being the stupid one of the Golden Trio were misplaced… 

“Do tell,” Draco says as he turns from the sink back towards Potter. His breath catches when he sees how close they are, and steps to the side subtly, disguising it as an attempt to dry his hands. He could have seen every pore on Potter’s face if he’d allowed himself to look. 

“Ron, Hermione, Neville, Luna, Dean, Seamus, and all of your friends too.” Potter’s voice is dull, as if it’s something really obvious, but his eyes are alight. Draco doesn’t know how to process it, can’t tell how Potter is feeling about it. 

“I only have three friends,” Draco says instead. “That would make it nine people, and we need to find eleven.”

Potter sighs, runs his hand through his hair. “That’s what I meant when I said I was missing a couple. I have no idea who the other two could be.”

“Maybe we’re looking too far into this,” Draco suggests. “Our friends might not be involved at all.”

“I guess so,” Potter says, “but I think there’s too many things pointing towards them for it to be a coincidence.”

“Okay then, theoretically, who do you think would be the leader? The one who was speaking at the meeting you walked in on?” 

Potter clearly hadn’t given that much thought. “I’m not totally sure…” He admits. “Someone magically strong enough to move the trees around, that’s for sure.”

“Also someone clever enough to think to charm their voice gender neutral,” Draco adds. “Theo and Blaise definitely aren’t that strong, and I don’t quite think Pansy is that ingenious.”

Potter chuckles at that. “The only person I can think of is Hermione, but I doubt her morals would allow her to do something like this. She’s always worried about how her actions might affect someone else.” He pauses, seeming to think for a second. “I honestly don’t think it could be any of the others either. I mean, Ron and Dean are strong enough to move the trees, but aren’t going to be the brains behind _anything_ like this situation. Luna may have been in Ravenclaw back in our Hogwarts days, but she doesn’t think this way. And Seamus… well, rest assured it isn’t him.”

Draco laughs at that. “Does he still blow up cauldrons on a daily basis?”

“I’m sure he would if Dean let him anywhere near one!” Potter grins. “As it is, anything flammable is kept well away from him.”

Draco smiles to himself as he thinks back to all the times Finnigan somehow exploded something no one thought _could_ explode. Then his thoughts turn to the darker times in his school days, and he shakes his head to clear it. 

“Don’t forget there’s still the other two people we haven’t thought of. The leader could be one of them as well.”

“That’s very true,” Potter murmurs, deep in thought. Draco huffs to himself, annoyed at the fact that Potter looks somewhat cute when he’s thinking. He does _not_ want to think about Potter like that. 

“Let’s draw it up. If we see it in front of us we might be able to make the connections we need to.”

Draco sighs, he should have known Potter would want to do something like this. He’s always trying to get things written up so he can reread them. “As long as it’s a mind map, go ahead,” he says.

He sees Potter roll his eyes, but he doesn’t argue with Draco as he leaves down the corridor. Potter comes back a few seconds later with his notebook and some of Draco’s markers. Well, they aren’t strictly _his_ , he found them in a drawer after all. Still, it’s the principle of the matter. 

“Are those mine?” He asks, eyes narrowed. He doesn’t really care—not at all, actually—but he doesn’t want Potter to know that. 

Potter, for all his flaws, has the sense to look sheepish. “Uh, yeah… I didn’t think you’d mind? I thought they might, uhm, help you understand?”

“Do I need help understanding things, Potter? Are you calling me slow?” Draco takes great delight in winding Potter up, and has to remind himself not to smile lest his fun end. 

Potter shakes his head quickly. “No! I just, I know you like art… so I thought—”

“You thought, what?” Draco raises his eyebrows for extra effect. 

Potter sighs. “You’re just winding me up, aren’t you?”

Draco groans in defeat. “What gave it away?”

“You’re never so quick to anger, not anymore.”

Draco tries not to think about what that says about him as Potter clears the coffee table in the living room and sets out the equipment. 

He walks over and plonks himself on the sofa, pulling the pillow into his lap and resisting the urge to lie down. Potter writes something in the middle in blue, and draws a cloud around it in grey. Draco can’t quite make it out with Potter’s head in the way, but he is silently pleased that Potter is doing as he asked. It is true that Draco’s brain works best with colour and visuals, and he’s glad—if somewhat surprised—that Potter has picked that up. Then again, Potter is quite observant.

“Here,” Potter says as he slides the paper over so Draco can see. The title in the middle reads ‘Suspected Wix’, and there are 11 lines coming off it, all in the same shade of blue. “Do you want to write out the nine names we already have?”

Draco tries not to show how fond he is as he picks up a dark red marker, not wanting Potter to catch on to how much Draco _doesn’t hate_ him anymore. He writes out all of their friends’ names, draws bubbles around them in the same grey as before, and sits back on his heels. 

“Great,” Potter says as he reaches across the table. He grabs the purple marker—Draco doesn’t bring up the irony in that choice—and scribbles a couple of dots under each name. “Now we can write out what we think they’re responsible for, or why we think they might be involved.”

Draco chews the inside of his mouth. “How about we add a general section too, cause there’s a lot that they are probably all a part of.”

“Great idea,” Potter agrees, already drawing up a twelfth bubble. 

Draco thinks for a while, watching as Potter writes up notes on all of his friends. Draco thinks back on their behaviour from the past year, ever since they got the bracelets. Pansy in particular has been acting strange, always tired and bothered. Draco ruled that up to work-related stress at the time, but maybe it was because she was planning something? He scribbles that thought down. Blaise has acted pretty much the same as always, but his fitness has definitely improved over the last couple of months. Theo has been putting lots of energy into learning more lately too, his head always buried in a book or two. Draco bites his lip; now that he thinks about it, they’ve all changed slightly in the past year, not noticeable until he looked for it. 

Potter finishes off with his friends, and Draco adds the common factors to the last section. There’s not much, really only the bracelets and how quickly they became friendly. Friendly, not friends. There’s definitely still some issues between the groups. He thinks for a second, and then puts the marker down. There’s nothing else to add. 

“Done?” Potter asks. 

Draco nods, massaging his hands out. “I think so.”

Potter sighs in relief and stretches his arms above his head. “Let’s go for a walk.”

“A walk?” Draco lifts an eyebrow; it’s bloody freezing outside. 

“Yeah, I figured we should go check out the Vanishing Cabinet _together_ for once.” Potter looks kind of smug about that, and Draco can’t figure out why. 

“Fine,” he agrees. “That’s probably a good idea.”

Potter smiles, then it twists into a grin. “I can hold your hand if you’re scared of falling again?”

Draco scowls. He turns without another word, and marches to the bedroom to get a coat.

*~*~*~

The walk to the courtyard seems to take forever. Despite the grey sky, it doesn’t rain. Draco turns to Potter, watches as he hops over a fallen log. He shakes his head, amused at how childlike Potter can be sometimes. 

“You should try it.”

Draco stops. “Try what?”

“Acting like a child,” Potter says with a shrug, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. 

“Did I say that out loud…?” 

Potter laughs at that. “No, but I could see it on your face.”

Draco huffs. “I quite like being sensible, thanks.”

He shakes his head, clutching at his side. “Of course you do. Mr Draco Malfoy, serious Unspeakable.”

“I do _not_ sound like that,” Draco says, willing himself not to snap. 

“Curse you gods!” Potter shouts, shaking his fist at the sky. “You do that at least once every day.”

Draco scowls again. “You’re no better! Mr ‘let’s blow up all the walls’!” 

Potter just laughs again, louder still. “Okay, but at least that was for a good reason.”

“Such as? I’d already done the same thing; without the mess, might I add!”

He sighs. “Yeah, but it was fun.”

Draco blows out a breath, watches as a cloud forms in front of his face. “You _are_ a child.”

Potter shrugs, kicking up snow as if that doesn’t prove Draco’s point exactly. “Maybe, but you’re stuck with me.”

Draco smiles. “I guess I am.” 

By the time they get to the courtyard, Potter has pulled entire fistfuls of pines off of trees, kicked snow into Draco’s hair—how it got all the way up there, he has no idea—and just generally been a nuisance. That said, Draco wouldn’t change it at all. 

As they duck through the branches at the edge of the forest and walk towards the courtyard, Draco takes a second to observe Potter. The man is wearing a navy blue coat, and it actually appears quite new. It was probably a gift from Granger, if the sleeves include little thumb holes. He squints, trying to catch a glimpse— and yes! They do. 

“So what exactly are we doing?” He asks, trying to hide his smile. He doesn’t need Potter wondering why he’s so happy. 

“Examining the Cabinet,” is his short reply. 

Draco scoffs. “Cause I couldn’t work that out for myself.”

Potter chuckles. “I was thinking maybe some more detection spells and other things you might like to try, and a thorough physical exam.”

Draco nods, thinking. “There _are_ a couple of things I’d like to try…”

Potter breaks into a jog, turning his head to look back at him. Draco shakes his head but speeds up too, joining Potter in his gentle rhythm. They run together for a couple of minutes, their breathing the only sound in the abandoned area. Potter is the first to slow, holding his hands above his head and groaning. 

“I really need to run more,” he says. 

Draco’s eyes catch on the slither of stomach visible. It’s dark and toned and there’s a slight trail of black hair stretching towards the waistband… 

“Malfoy?”

Draco jumps. “Sorry?” 

Potter is laughing at him again. “I said you should go first.”

Draco’s forehead creases, not understanding. Potter sighs and nudges him, their shoulders bumping. The movement turns Draco around slightly, and he sees that they’ve somehow made it to the courtyard without him noticing. 

Draco fights back a flush and steps away from Potter. He squares his shoulders and drops to his knees, crouching in front of the Cabinet. He hears a gasp behind him, and Draco realises that he forgot to check for any new wards. Cursing _himself_ for once, he shuffles back a bit and draws his wand. The spell he casts lights up a globe around the Cabinet, intricate blue lines weaving around each other. If a hex or curse or an otherwise dangerous spell is present, little red spots should light up. When Draco scans the cover and sees nothing, he drops the spell and moves closer. 

Now that he knows he won’t be hexed on first contact, Draco allows himself to breathe. He lost his head for a second there, but it’s screwed on tightly now. 

Draco moves his wand over the front of the Cabinet, drawing long lines in front of the doors. Nothing is detected immediately, and Draco realises why nothing happened when he touched it nearly a week ago. He doesn’t say anything yet, wanting to be absolutely positive before bringing it up with Potter. It doesn’t bode well for them if what he’s suspecting is true. 

Draco reaches for the first silver handle, feels it cold against his skin as if it was made of ice. He breathes deeply for a second, reminding himself he’s alive, and tugs it open. 

Nothing happens. Draco lets out a sigh of relief and pulls it open further. He activates a charm to make his wand vibrate if something is off, and throws it into the Cabinet, shielding himself with his arm. Things rarely go wrong, but this might very well be the one time, and Draco refuses to be caught unaware. 

The wand sits perfectly still on the wooden floor, and Draco doesn’t know how to react. On one hand, it’s great that he hasn’t accidentally killed himself. On the other though… 

“Potter,” he says with a sigh. “There’s something fundamentally wrong with this Cabinet.”

Potter moves closer, peering over Draco’s shoulder as if expecting to see something. “It looks fine?”

Draco shakes his head. “It’s really not though.” He stands up and swaps places with him. “The charm work required to move things across to the other Cabinet is missing. That’s why we can touch it without being dragged Merlin-knows-where.”

Potter frowns. “Why would someone do that?”

“Because this whole thing was planned?” Draco suggests. “I don’t know. There must be a way to fix it though, to bring the magic back. There’d be no point otherwise.”

“Well, you should be really good at that,” Potter jokes. 

Draco swallows, suddenly overcome with a feeling of nothingness. 

Potter’s hand is warm on his shoulder, making a sudden yet persistent appearance. “I’m so sorry Malfoy, I realise how that sounds. That wasn’t my intention at all.”

Draco blinks furiously, not allowing himself to tear up. He breathes harshly. Swallows again. 

“Really.” Potter sounds so sincere and distraught, that Draco gives in. 

He nods, wipes at his eyes, and starts speaking again. “This Cabinet can’t be repaired the usual way. Normally, there would be traces of the original magic, evidence that they existed and have been destroyed somehow. The one I worked on in school was damaged, tricky to fix but not impossible. This one though…”

“There’s nothing at all, is there.”

Draco remains silent, giving the answer without having to do anything at all. 

Potter heaves a sigh. “Okay then.” He begins pacing up and down the courtyard, never straying too far away but never coming too close either. “Physical exam,” he says, face lighting up. “Maybe there’s something there we haven’t found yet, some easy way to string the magic back.”

Draco doesn’t bother telling him that it’s impossible to ‘string back’ magic that is no longer there. 

Potter races to the Cabinet and crouches down, knees hitting the pavement hard. Draco cringes, but Potter doesn’t react at all. 

He watches as the other man draws his wand and starts tapping the wood in a seemingly random pattern. Potter frowns, chews his lip, and drags the tip across the doors. Nothing happens, and Draco has no idea what he’s doing. He looks on with mild curiosity as Potter stands up and repeats his process on both sides of the Cabinet too. 

“Help me move it,” Potter announces after a minute in thoughtful silence. 

“Move it?” Draco doesn’t see why he’d want to move it at all. 

“Yeah,” Potter says, already tucking his wand into one of his many pockets. “The back is pressed against the water fountain, and I need to get to it.”

Draco hadn’t even thought of that. This is why he’s an Unspeakable and not an Auror. He does best following a structure, not assessing entire scenes like Potter does so easily. Without another word, he walks over and stands on the opposite side to Potter. Potter counts them down from three, and then they lift it slightly off the ground and shuffle it forward. 

“Shit!” Draco exclaims, tearing his hand away from the wood. He inspects his finger and sees a splinter embedded in his skin. Wincing, he pulls his wand from his pocket and vanishes the tiny bit of wood right from his hand. There’s no time to take it out properly. 

“All good?” Potter asks, heading poking around. 

“Yeah, just a splinter.” 

He hears Potter laugh at him, and Draco feels himself smiling too. 

“On three.”

Draco’s hands find a new spot to hold, stretched wide over the edges and corners, and when Potter says ‘one’ he puts all his effort into moving the bloody thing. 

The Cabinet is pushed forward, and this time there’s enough of a space between it and the fountain for a person to stand in. Draco groans as his hands drop, and he works his blood flow back into them. Potter doesn’t wait though, immediately moving to the gap. Draco can’t see him very well, but he hears his triumphant shout. 

“Malfoy! I found something!”

Draco’s eyes widen and he races to join Potter, his hands forgotten about. His eyes instantly find it; a small rectangle cut into the back at about knee level. Draco’s heart thuds as he thinks about what this means. 

“The one exception, the one thing that can call magic back to a Vanishing Cabinet, is if an item woven with that very magic is placed into the Cabinet… I looked for a compartment inside, but there wasn’t one there… It’s out here.” 

Potter beams, grin stretching from ear to ear. “So… you might be able to find a way to get back to London?”

“I mean, I’d have to find the exact thing—hell, maybe even _things_ —and try a multitude of spells, but yes.”

Potter doesn’t seem the least bit deterred. “Brilliant!” He leans forward and traces the small cut with the tip of his finger. He hooks his short nails into it, and tries to pull. A compartment slides easily out, a small drawer. Inside sits a piece of leather, dyed purple and silver. 

“Look here Malfoy. What do you think of this?”

Draco leans closer. The leather looks dried out and almost forgotten about, and the compartment is about the size of his hand if all his fingers are pushed together, and about an inch deep. “At least a few things… It could be anything really.”

Potter’s smile drops, but then picks up. “At least we made some progress today. I say that calls for hot chocolate.” He swipes the leather out—Draco winces as Potter forgets to check for curses—and pushes the drawer back into place. 

Draco rolls his eyes but can’t help thinking how great that sounds. “I guess so.” A pause as they duck out from behind the Cabinet and begin walking. “I guarantee mine will be better.”

“You’re on Malfoy.”

*~*~*~

In the end, the hot chocolate competition didn’t get very far. Draco got into the kitchen, prepared to make a replica of the hot cocoa he had made the very first night he arrived, only even better somehow, only to discover that there were a total of _two_ mugs left. These mugs were nearly identical, and equally horrifying. At least, Draco thinks they’re awful; Potter might actually _like_ them. 

The mugs sit on the counter and taunt him, while Potter laughs his arse off. Draco doesn’t think it’s that funny at all, and has no qualms telling Potter to shut the fuck up. 

The first mug is a snowman standing on its hands, with its scarf wrapping around to form the handle. It’s white with red stripes on the scarf, and Draco can’t help thinking how stereotypical it is. The second is just as horrid, depicting the Muggle figure ‘Santa Claus’ also doing a handstand. Draco doesn’t know why Muggles are all so obsessed with this make-belief man, but he _does_ know that Mr Claus looks pathetic on his hands with his arse in the air. 

“Oh my fucking god that’s amazing!” Potter is practically shaking with laughter. 

Draco is shaking with fury. “Who the fuck would make something like these?!”

“Oh who cares Malfoy! Just make the bloody drinks.”

Draco huffs. “I thought it was a competition. It kind of ruins the point if I make both of them.”

Potter just shrugs. “Honestly, I don’t care about that anymore. It’s been a long day, and all I want is a nice, hot drink to relax with.”

“Go drink bath water then.”

Potter snorts at that. “No thanks. I’d rather drink the hot chocolate you’ll make me.”

Draco scowls half heartedly but goes about collecting things to make two hot cocoas. 

“I knew you’d do it eventually,” Potter says, a smile evident in his voice. Draco grunts in acknowledgment but is too preoccupied to really take in what he said. 

A few minutes later, they are sitting on the sofa, drinking out of the hideous mugs. Draco is shivering in the cold, but the drink warms him up from the inside out. He wraps a blanket tighter around himself, looping it over his shoulders and tugging it into place. Potter’s teeth chatter from the other end of the couch, and he absentmindedly shuffles closer to Draco. Draco takes another sip of his drink, hands wrapped around the mug and allowing it to warm his skin. He sighs as the steam rises onto his face and he feels the cold drift away. 

They sit in comfortable silence, probably one of the first since they’ve been trapped here. Draco supposes the multiple breakthroughs recently and just how tired they are has lowered their guards, made them realise they actually need the other one. At least, Draco thinks that’s true for himself. He has no way of knowing what Potter is thinking though. Even after knowing him since they were 11, and basically working together for three years, there’s still so much he isn’t sure about. 

He knows Potter likes things written down, that that’s how he learns and takes in information; so unlike Draco, who needs everything in visuals to truly understand it. He knows how Potter usually takes his tea—which he rarely drinks at all—how he values his friends above nearly everything else. How important celebrations like Christmas are to him, because of everything he missed out on as a child. Draco doesn’t even know half of what Potter went through before Hogwarts, but it definitely wasn’t pleasant if the trauma has lingered this long. The chaos that was the war hasn’t helped in any way either. 

He knows Potter is divorced, that he rushed his marriage to Ginevra Weasley after the war, only to discover they weren’t really compatible. For a start, Ginevra had only wanted to be with him because she had idolised him as a child; Draco had always thought it was odd that Potter would be interested in someone who looked up to him like that. Then, of course, there’s the fact that Ginevra fell in love with Luna Lovegood not long after, and Potter himself realising he swings both ways. Of course, Draco hadn’t known the extent of everything until a few days ago, but since then he’s managed to piece it all together. 

It’s really quite interesting, what someone can learn just from watching them go about their lives. For example, Potter is always running his hands through his hair, scratching at his head. Always rubbing the back of his neck, as if it will somehow stop him feeling awkward or embarrassed. He does it quite a lot right now, always touching his head or neck. Draco doesn’t want to think about what that means. He doesn’t want to think too much about anything where Potter is concerned. 

“What are you thinking about?” Potter asks, placing his stupid mug down on the coffee table and turning to face him. 

Draco shakes his head. He seems to be doing a lot of that lately too. “Nothing important, really.”

“No, tell me!” Potter leans forward, eager to know. “You looked so thoughtful.”

“Really, it was nothing,” Draco insists, trying to dodge the conversation. 

“I don’t think so.” Potter’s eyes gleam, startlingly green in the fire. 

Draco decides the best course of action to avoid questions like this one is to stare into space and zone out. So he does just that. He gazes out into the fireplace, sipping from his hot chocolate and doing his best to ignore Potter’s piercing look. Unfortunately for him, Potter is way too stubborn for his own good. Unless he decides something isn’t going to happen, and Draco just hopes he will give up soon enough. 

“Fine, I’ll leave your thoughts secret. _For now_.” 

With that, Potter stands up and takes his mug to the kitchen. Draco smiles into his own mug, drains it, and follows him. 

“I’m in the bed tonight.”

Potter shrugs. “Go for it. I had the bed last night.”

Draco pauses. “I thought you’d argue that…”

“Want me to yell, do you?”

Draco fights back a blush. “No, I wanted you to give in after some slight resistance.”

“Well, how did that work out for you?” Potter grins at him and moves off to the bathroom.

Draco slumps against the counter. He measures his breathing, counts slowly as his breath enters and exits his lungs. There’s nothing quite so grounding as breathing. After a second, Draco pushes off the counter and makes his way to the bedroom. Flashbacks from yesterday flicker before his eyes, and he fights them back. 

He strips his clothes off quickly and pulls on his pyjamas, not wanting to freeze to death before getting into bed. The nights are so bloody cold. Draco shivers, skin prickling into goosebumps even as he dives under the covers and piles them up. He pulls them over his shoulders, only realising as he buries his face in the pillow that the sheets were never cleaned this morning. They smell like Potter. 

Draco is doomed. He breathes in the scent, delighting in the warmth it brings him. It’s ridiculous, he knows it is. But he can’t stop himself. Yesterday was a disaster he would like to wipe from his memory, would like to burn off the face of the earth. It wasn’t even that bad; actually, his time alone was going really well. It had started off innocently enough, just reading his newest novel in bed. And then he read a rather… steamy scene and couldn’t help sliding his hand down the front of his pants, taking himself in hand and—

And then wanking to Harry bloody Potter. There’s no denying it, that’s exactly what he did. He wrapped his hand around his cock, thoughts of Potter burning into his skull, and then he was walked in on. By that exact person. Draco shakes his head, as if trying to dislodge the memory from his mind. He doesn’t want to think about it. Doesn’t want to acknowledge what he _knows_ it means. He can’t bring himself to, it will hurt too much when it goes up in flames. Or is buried under snow, as the season calls for. 

Draco sighs, tugging the blankets up higher. He’s freezing, body shaking. There’s no way it was this cold a few minutes ago. Then again, he was in front of a fire. Draco grunts, rearranging himself and trying to get comfortable while not allowing any of the cold into the bed. He’s going to turn to ice in his sleep, but there’s not much he can do. 

An idea comes to him, and he bolts upright. Warming charms! They exist for a reason! Draco can’t believe he hadn’t thought of that until just now. He leaps out of the bed, shivering as the cold air hits his skin, grabs his wand from the chest of drawers, and casts a warming charm to keep the room a comfortable temperature. He groans as he warms up almost instantly, and makes his way back to the bed. In a moment of rational thinking, he also casts a charm to freshen the bed up and remove all traces of Potter. He regrets it immediately, but it was a good idea. He sighs, slips under the now clean covers, and wills sleep to come quickly. 


	12. Chapter 12

****

[A plant in a white pot, curving up to the left with a red bauble hanging off]

**December 12th 2003 - Friday**

The compartment Harry found yesterday had dyed leather in it. Not only was it coloured, no, but in the same bloody colours Harry is utterly sick of. Purple and silver haunt his nightmares now, merging with everything else. Or, they would, except for the fact that Harry takes dreamless sleep nearly every night if he remembers. 

Something irks him though. Purple and silver are a massive part of this problem, being all over the place. The Cabinet, bracelets, the cloaked wix in the forest, the cotton Malfoy found, and now the leather. Harry sighs to himself and stands. His back aches from sleeping on the couch again, and he regrets allowing Malfoy to take the bed so easily. He also woke up shivering with cold multiple times, and no amount of blankets seemed to ease it. Harry rubs at his eyes and decides to get some coffee. He’s not going to be able to function very well today without it, he thinks, despite it making his brain race uncomfortably. What a Malfoy thing.

Harry pushes the blankets off himself and drops them to the floor, telling himself he’ll pick them up later. He walks the short distance to the kitchen and goes about preparing some basic coffee to warm him up. Malfoy is yet to surface this morning, and Harry envies his ability to sleep in. Harry’s never been a good sleeper—whatever that means—and hasn’t ever slept in past 10. Becoming an Auror hasn’t exactly helped either, with early morning starts and late nights. Hermione had wanted to kick him when she’d found out, even though she admitted she wasn’t in the least surprised about his career choice, and not simply because everyone else thought that’s what he’d choose. 

Harry’s thoughts turn back to the problem at hand. Something about the cotton and leather being chosen irks him. They’re so _random_ , so detached from anything Harry would choose if he had set up something like this. There must be something there, something symbolic about them. Harry wishes he could ask Hermione about them, but with no Floo connection or owl, it’s pointless thinking about it. 

He pours his coffee into a normal mug—he’d cleaned them all last night after Malfoy went to bed, as funny as the snowman and Santa mugs were, he didn’t fancy a repeat—and breathes in the fumes. He loves the scent of coffee, actually enjoying smelling it more than drinking it. Unlike Malfoy, who would permanently have a mug in his hands if he could. Harry wonders when he found that out about Malfoy, but quickly pushes the thought away. If there’s one thing Harry’s learnt about _himself_ in the past week and a bit, it’s that he’s great at ignoring things when he chooses. 

Harry takes his mug back to the couch and picks up the book he’s yet to start still. He would have yesterday, but then they’d fallen down a spiral of suspecting their friends and trudging through forests, so he’d never gotten to it. He sips his coffee, burns his tongue, and places it down on the coffee table to cool a bit. He picks up his book and flips to the first page, starting to read. 

“Morning,” someone says sleepily from behind him. Harry jumps, book going flying and landing on his mug, knocking it over.

“Oh shite! I’m so sorry!” 

Harry turns to see a sleep crumpled Malfoy, looking very apologetic. He sighs, pulling the book out of the mess of spilt coffee. “Use your spell please.” He leaves out the ‘again’. 

Malfoy chews his lip, creases his brows, before seemingly understanding what Harry’s asking of him. He grabs the closest wand—Harry’s—and casts the non-verbal charm to siphon off the coffee. The pages are dried out instantly, but they’re very faintly stained brown. Harry sighs. 

“I’m sorry,” Malfoy says again. “I’ll make you a new coffee.”

Harry shakes his head. “I’ll make it myself.” He looks Malfoy up and down. “I’ll make _you_ one too.”

Malfoy nods easily, taking a seat on the couch as Harry stands. He’s lucky none of the coffee got on him.

Harry walks back to the kitchen, getting a second mug for Malfoy, rinsing his old one, and pouring them coffee once it finishes. He carries them back to the living room, being very careful not to spill even a drop. 

“Thanks,” Malfoy mumbles as his mug is passed to him. Harry watches as he breathes on it and takes a sip, and then sits back down against the arm of the couch. 

“Good morning,” Harry says. “I don’t think I said it earlier.”

Malfoy chuckles. “You didn’t. But to be fair, I made you spill coffee and ruin your book again.”

“It wasn’t your fault the first time,” Harry laughs. He takes a cautious sip of his drink, trying to avoid burning his tongue again. No such thing as success. 

Malfoy sighs and takes a gulp, relaxing against the cushions. Harry watches for a wince, but there isn’t one. How does Malfoy avoid burning his mouth? He thinks for a second. Maybe it’s become desensitised to it, with all the coffee Malfoy drinks… 

“Any plans for today?” Malfoy asks after a moment of comfortable silence. 

Harry shakes his head. “I hadn’t thought of anything.”

“Well,” Malfoy says, in a way that makes Harry _know_ he’s got a plan. “Since we made some progress yesterday, I thought we should maybe try to see if there’s anything we missed?”

“Like what, more trees?”

Malfoy scowls at Harry’s poor joke. “Maybe there’s another cottage or something, we’ve only really explored one side of the forest.”

Harry pauses. “That’s not a terrible idea.”

Malfoy scoffs. “I’m telling you, my ideas are good!”

“Maybe they are.”

*~*~*~

Harry finds himself wrapped up in four layers of clothing, with gloves on his hands and a beanie on his head. Despite what Malfoy says, it’s bloody freezing, and Harry doesn’t think a fashion statement is more important than avoiding hypothermia. Malfoy, of course, disagrees entirely. He’s only in three layers, with a shiny black coat, sleek gloves and a blush beanie that brings out the natural pink to his skin. Harry thinks he looks marvellous, but he doesn’t say that to Malfoy, just scoffs at his ridiculous outfit. 

The walk down the path is challenging to say the least, with snow having fallen all night. The ground is squishy and wet, and their footsteps sink deep into it. Malfoy makes a disgusted sound as his boot is swallowed by the icy mush, and he tugs it back up. Harry nods his head towards a different part of the forest than the part they usually enter, and Malfoy grunts in reply. They start running at the same time, laboured steps that squelch in the snow, but they make it under the cover of the trees where there’s less of it. Malfoy of course, gets there a split second before Harry, and starts chanting about how he won. 

“I’ll let you have that one, but only because you’re yet to beat me in Quidditch.”

Malfoy scowls but drops it, choosing instead to talk about weird stories from his work. As an Unspeakable he sees some of the funniest and strangest things in the Wizarding World. Harry is kind of jealous. 

“And then there was this one case that _no one_ could figure out, where this guy kept coughing up fairies! You know, the fairies that light up and are on Christmas trees? Well, it turns out that his great grandmother had just passed and left him a necklace, which he had scoffed at and hidden away. The necklace was, of course, cursed, so that if someone insulted it they would be punished by fairies!”

Harry’s eyes bulge out of his head. “That’s ridiculous! No way that’s true Malfoy.”

“But it is! I took one look at the necklace and knew it straight away. It had this mark, you see? The size of my pinky finger and shaped like an acorn. Very old magic, practically medieval!”

“And all I get to do is sit at a desk,” Harry mumbles. 

“Cheer up Potter! At least you didn’t almost lose your hand to a Cornish pixie when it caught you wanking!”

Harry freezes. “You’re joking.”

Malfoy shakes his head. “Nasty thing tried to pull my fingers off one by one.” He shudders. 

“That’s awful,” Harry says, astounded. “Although, there was this one time-” Harry stops in his tracks, conversation forgotten. “Did you hear that?”

Malfoy pauses too. He shakes his head and bends low, ducking behind a tree. After a second, Harry follows his lead and hides between two bushes. 

The sound of footsteps approaching sets his teeth on edge, flashbacks to the Forbidden Forest filling his mind. They stop a little way off and turn, moving in a new direction as if changing path entirely. Harry waits for a few more seconds before standing, then peers around to see the person. 

“Did you see them?” Malfoy whispers from the tree, and Harry walks towards him. 

“No,” he says, voice quiet. 

Malfoy steps back, leaving the shelter of the tree. “Well, I must have been right. There _has_ to be something else here!”

Harry shakes his head with a roll of his eyes. “Of course that’s what you latch onto.”

Malfoy shrugs, grinning. Then his face darkens. “That terrified me.”

Oh. They’re talking about this, then. “Yeah. I hate forests.”

Malfoy sighs. “You’d be stupid if you didn’t.”

They fall silent, and Harry’s glad he’s dropped the subject. He’s not glad that it’s a sore spot for both of them as that means Malfoy is also suffering, but at least they’re not dealing with it alone, unlike last time. 

They continue walking, taking in the new plants and startling at the beds flying past them. The conversation isn’t picked up again, but Harry finds that he doesn’t particularly care. Just walking with Malfoy is enough, comfortable silence lingering in the air, a pleasant stillness which is almost calming. He would never have thought they’d be able to achieve even this. Not six years ago, not when they were at each other’s throats. Not when Harry nearly killed him.

He swallows sharply, and Malfoy notices. He feels his eyes on him for a couple of minutes, calculating. Harry takes deep breaths, feeling the oxygen cycle around his body. Malfoy eventually drops his gaze, and Harry relaxes again. He’s too warm though, and pulls off his beanie. He tucks it into one of his coat’s pockets, and Malfoy laughs. 

“I told you that thing was hideous.”

Harry jabs at him with his elbow. “It is not.”

“Then why’d you take it off?” Malfoy goads. 

Harry shrugs. “I’m warm.”

Malfoy’s eyebrows lift, but Harry ignores them. They settle into silence again.

Soon later, they arrive at the edge of the forest. Harry feels like cheering at the prospect of open skies, and runs towards the light. He ducks under branches and winds around trees, and races onto snow covered grass. He grins in the sunlight and turns to find Malfoy watching him thoughtfully, walking at a much more civilised pace. Harry doesn’t care, just happy to be out of the forest. 

“Potter,” Malfoy says carefully. “Don’t turn around.”

Harry’s heart drops, smile fading instantly. “Why?”

Malfoy doesn’t answer, just looks into the distance. 

“Malfoy, what’s there?”

He shakes his head at Harry. “Nothing, just… I don’t know, it was stupid.” Malfoy flushes and brushes past Harry. 

Harry frowns, but turns to look out. There’s a village. 

His eyebrows come down, head tilting. “Malfoy, wait.”

Malfoy halts in front of him but doesn’t turn to look at him. 

Harry sighs but doesn’t comment. “This is the same village. Look, there’s even a courtyard.” He raises a hand to point at a red bricked plaza, only to realise Malfoy won’t be able to see the gesture. He sighs again and walks up to him. 

“It’s not the same,” Malfoy says. He jumps when he notices Harry next to him, but keeps speaking. “For a start, there’s no Vanishing Cabinet.” He nods to the courtyard, empty except for a fountain. “Plus, there’s people here.”

And Malfoy isn’t wrong. There _are_ people, lots of them. They’re milling around the courtyard, sitting on the fountain’s edge. They’re standing on the stretch of grass, walking down the path and entering shops. It’s alive with people. 

“How?” Harry whispers. 

He hears Malfoy swallow but doesn’t look at him. “I’m not sure.”

Malfoy makes to move closer to the people, but Harry grabs his arm. He only realises too late that it’s his left wrist, and Malfoy pulls it away harshly. Harry holds his hands up in surrender. 

“What?” Malfoy grits out, eyes burning into Harry’s face. 

“I don’t think they’re magical.” 

Malfoy pauses. “And?”

Harry looks pointedly at him. “We need to drop the warming charms and hide our wands.”

Malfoy tucks his wand into his sleeve, and Harry follows suit. 

“The charm?”

“There is no charm, Potter.”

Harry scowls. “There _is_. I can feel it.”

Malfoy shrugs at him. “I haven’t put a charm up, you must just be warm.”

He chews the inside of his mouth, tongue running over his own teeth. He sighs. “Fine.”

Malfoy looks like he’s about to argue, so Harry grabs his hand and hauls him along, walking towards the village. Malfoy doesn’t pull away this time.

*~*~*~

Harry drops his hand from Malfoy’s as they approach the village. The people look at them weirdly as they step into the plaza, and Harry feels uncomfortable under their gaze. Malfoy seems totally unaffected though, and all but drags Harry to the fountain. He takes a seat on the edge of it, right behind where the Cabinet was just yesterday. Harry’s eyes scan the ground, looking for marks in the pavement. There’s nothing there to indicate furniture being dragged back and forth. 

Malfoy leaps up a second later and tugs Harry along with him, saying something about a bookstore he wants to check. Harry is lost by the time they arrive at the front of a shop, but sees a sign declaring ‘50% off the second book!’

He turns to Malfoy with a questioning look. Malfoy just shrugs. “It’s the same layout as the other one, I remembered the way.”

Harry shakes his head in amazement and twists the handle to the left. It clicks open and pushes in easily, and Harry holds it open for Malfoy to walk in after him. 

Malfoy immediately makes his way to the back of the store, and starts looking through the books there. Harry takes a second to gaze around the room, admiring the shop’s interior. It’s filled with ceiling-tall shelves, all packed to the brim with colourful books. The floor is carefully carpeted, footprints lasting only a second before melting away into the cream coloured carpet. The counter at the front of the store is on pale wooden floorboards, with a red rug placed beneath it. Harry blinks, spotting a coffee table off to the corner. His mind automatically remembers the mishap this morning, and feels his cheeks warm. 

“Whatcha looking for?” He asks as he comes up behind Malfoy. 

“Nothing in particular,” the other man mumbles, dragging his index finger along the books’ spines. He pauses, lifting his head to look Harry in the eyes. “I found this shop in the other village and was desperate to look at the books. I left without touching anything though.”

Harry watches a flicker of sadness cross Malfoy’s face, and he makes a promise to himself to buy Malfoy a book from here at some point. 

Harry leaves Malfoy to scan over the many books, and wanders across to a different section. This one seems to be dedicated to geography, and he barely hides his grimace. Geography was always his least favourite subject in Muggle school, so why anyone would want to read a book on it is lost to him. Then again, the books might include stunning pictures… Also might not, he reasons. Shrugging, he turns to face a different shelf. 

This one is neatly labelled as ‘Mental Health and Self-Help’ and Harry quickly skips it and moves to another shelf. He already has Hermione on him about seeing a therapist, the last thing he needs is for a book to tell him too. Shaking his head, he impatiently walks back to Malfoy. 

“There’s so many options…” He’s muttering to himself as Harry approaches. “So many…”

“Found anything yet?” Harry asks gently, not wanting to spook Malfoy. 

He shakes his head. “I don’t know what I want! Look how many options there are!”

Harry bites back his chuckle. He leans closer to the books and looks over the titles. There’s no genre label, and he tilts his head. “What type of books are they?”

Malfoy lights up, silver eyes wide and excited. “They’re all gay books!” He whispers, as if scared to let anyone else know lest they take them from him. 

Harry shakes his head on a soft laugh. “Of course they are,” he says, smiling. “Come on, pick a couple, and then we need to go.”

Malfoy nods, picking up three at random. Harry holds back his comment that ‘a couple’ specifically means ‘two’ and Malfoy should know that, in favour of walking with him to the counter. 

The man behind the register watches them approach and puts down his tea. “What’ll it be gentlemen?” He asks, eyes flicking between them. 

Malfoy slides the books over to him, hands suddenly shaking. Harry takes them in his, stilling them. The man looks at the titles and then back at them, and grins at them. 

“Not many people buy these…” He starts, a gleam in his eyes. “I’m glad you lads are.” There’s a knowing look in his expression that Harry doesn’t like at all, but Malfoy hands over some Muggle coins he apparently had in his pocket all along. 

“Thank you,” he says as the cashier places them into a bag. Malfoy drops his hands from Harry’s, choosing instead to clasp them tightly around the bag presented to him. Harry nods to the man and opens the door for Malfoy to walk through, determinedly not thinking about whatever the cashier thought he saw between him and Malfoy. 

“Feel better now you’ve got some new books?” He prods at Malfoy’s ribs, teasing him gently. 

Malfoy grins. “Very! I can’t wait to go read them.”

“Merlin,” Harry says, shaking his head. “You’re like a toddler who was just given chocolate!”

Malfoy immediately closes off, hands tightening their grip again. Harry watches with dread in his heart as Malfoy slows. 

“Hey,” Harry murmurs. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.” He can’t stand seeing Malfoy closed off to him.

Malfoy sniffs and straightens his back, ignoring Harry in favour of peering into a bag shop Harry somehow missed the last time he was here. There’s a little leather wallet in the display window Malfoy’s looking at, and Harry gazes around the window too. 

Malfoy moves to enter the shop when something else catches his eye. 

He moves off without talking to Harry, who rushes to follow him. 

“Hey, I really am sorry. I just meant you were so excited!”

Malfoy scowls, jaw clenching. 

“That’s not a bad thing!” Harry tries. “I actually liked it, you looked so happy and free.”

That stops Malfoy, and he turns to look at him. “Why would you like seeing me happy?”

Harry pauses. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” he says, stepping closer, “why do you care about how I feel?”

All his breath leaves his lungs, and Harry has to force himself to breathe again. Before he can say something to divert attention away from his reddening cheeks, Malfoy is pulling away and walking over to the grocer on the other side of the grass strip. 

Harry licks his suddenly dry lips, swallows a couple of times, and follows Malfoy into the grocery shop. 

*~*~*~

He watches as Malfoy makes his way methodically down each aisle, picking out things seemingly at random and inspecting them. Harry hasn’t ever really _been_ to a small grocer, preferring to shop at a massive general store like Tesco. He knows that’s not a thing to be proud of and that produce is nearly always better from a local grower, but it’s much more convenient in a big chain. It does have the effect of triggering his claustrophobia sometimes, but when it’s too busy he goes home and doesn’t worry about his shopping. 

Malfoy, arms laden with vegetables and meats, walks back to Harry and moves to dump the lot into Harry’s hands. Harry lifts an eyebrow and turns to find a basket. There’s a little stack across the walkway, and he jogs to get one. When he turns back to give it to Malfoy, it’s to find the other man casually floating one towards him. Harry frowns and races back to him. 

“You can’t—”

“Calm down Potter, there’s anti-Muggle charms and Notice-Me-Nots all around us, they can’t see.”

Malfoy drops the whole lot of groceries into the basket and loops it over his elbow. He nods to the next aisle, and Harry shakes his head but follows all the same. 

By the time they make it to the checkout, the basket is very full and very heavy. Harry asked a couple of times why they need to buy food at all, considering the cottage seems to supply whatever they need for them, but Malfoy had shrugged and said something about quality and freshness. Harry hadn’t tried to persuade him otherwise. 

“Good afternoon gentlemen,” the girl behind the register says. She gestures with a dark hand for them to place the basket on the counter, and Malfoy heaves it up. The girl looks momentarily overwhelmed with how much is in the basket, but her expression quickly smooths out and she begins checking them out. 

“How are you lads?” She asks, moving the lettuce towards her. 

“We’re pretty good, thanks,” Malfoy replies, and Harry’s not sure that’s 100% true. Not many people would feel this good after being forcibly removed from their lives and dumped into a not-so-abandoned area. “What about you?”

“Oh I’m great!” The worker, she can’t be more than seventeen, exclaims. She puts the cheese Malfoy picked out into a bag, and slides the pack of red apples closer. “I don’t think I’ve seen you around. Where are you from?”

“London, actually,” Harry says, jumping in before Malfoy can totally take over the conversation. Harry can be polite too, thank you very much. 

The girl nods. “We get quite a few from London around Christmas. Where are you staying?” She looks up at them, eyes earnest and curious. 

“A little cottage on the other side of the forest,” Malfoy explains, relaxing into one hip. 

The worker’s eyebrows pinch together. “I didn’t know there was a cottage over there.”

“Yeah, it’s to the… south of here, I think.” Malfoy fiddles with the clasp on his coat. 

She shakes her head. “I would know if there was a cottage. I ran through the forest every day for _months_ a while back.”

Harry shrugs, moving his gaze away from Malfoy. An idea suddenly comes to him. “What happened to the other village?”

The girl stops, hands stilling and looking up at them. “What other village?”

“You know, the one that looks very similar to this one but slightly that way,” Harry continues, nodding in the direction. 

The girl huffs and continues packing their bags. “You lads must be a bit confused,” she says. “There is no other village anywhere near here, and definitely no cottage.” She finishes in silence and then tells them their bill. 

Harry’s mouth drops open at the price of their food, but Malfoy just reaches into his coat pocket and slides the money over to her. She smiles politely and nods them goodbye, but Harry can tell she’s annoyed by the tight lines around her mouth. Malfoy grabs the paper bags, refusing Harry’s help, and leaves the grocer. 

“That’s strange,” Harry says the second they’re out of ear shot. 

Malfoy just nods and steers them towards the bakery at the other end of the shopping strip. He waits for Harry to open the door for him, and Harry does so with a laugh. Malfoy brushes past him with a good natured sneer, and approaches the cabinets lined with bread and pastries. 

“I was going to buy you something, but with that attitude I might not,” he mumbles to Harry. 

“You’ve bought everything else so far, let me buy this.”

“Did you bring money?” Malfoy asks, a pale eyebrow rising up his face. 

“Well, no—”

“Then you can’t, can you?”

Harry sighs and shakes his head. 

The person behind the counter chuckles at them. “Having trouble there, gentlemen?”

Harry smiles at them and shakes his head. “No, we’re good.”

The worker laughs softly and asks what they’d like. Malfoy starts pointing out different breads and asking about them, so Harry takes the chance to look around the shop. 

It’s a very normal looking bakery, with chalkboards stating specials and glass cabinets displaying the goods. Harry’s eyes roam over the counter and its various knickknacks, and spots a very strange looking plant. It’s dark green, sitting in a small white pot, and is curved up to the left. From the end of the curve dangles a red bauble. 

“What’s that?” Harry points out the plant to the cashier. 

They turn to see where he’s gesturing and burst out laughing again. “It’s supposed to be a reference to _How The Grinch Stole Christmas_ ,” they explain, “but everyone who sees it just says it looks like a Grinch dick!” They laugh uncontrollably, shoulders shuddering with joy. 

Harry laughs a bit himself, remembering the ridiculous movie posters a few years back. Malfoy, however, doesn’t seem to get it. 

“Have you not seen that movie?” He asks, prodding Malfoy in the ribs. 

Malfoy shakes his head, his face having taken on a very weirded-out expression. 

Harry chuckles. “I might have to fix that.”

Malfoy blanches. “I don’t think I want to watch it.”

“Suit yourself,” the worker says, drawing their attention back to the baked goods. 

*~*~*~

Harry and Malfoy make their way back to the forest’s edge, arms full of bags and loaves of bread. They don’t talk that much, choosing instead to walk in silence. When they duck between the trees though and away from the Muggle’s eyes, Malfoy immediately starts laughing. 

He nearly drops his bags and falls over, and Harry has to catch everything to save their food from meeting a snowy end. Malfoy leans against a tree, hands clutching at his stomach and wiping tears from his eyes. He pulls his gloves off to better get at the tears, and Harry takes them from his hands gently. 

“Sorry, sorry,” Malfoy gasps out. “It’s just, that was ridiculous!”

Harry chuckles along awkwardly with him, arms burning as the bags cut into his skin. 

Malfoy seems to recover himself and realises Harry’s struggle, grabbing for the bags. He juggles them all for a second before straightening up. Harry groans in relief and slides the remainder of the bags down to his hands and off his forearms. Thick coat or not, that hurt. 

“What was so funny?” Harry asks after a moment spent just staring at each other. 

Malfoy grins. “The man from the bookstore, the girl who said our cottage was non-existent, and that bloody stupid plant!”

Harry smiles a bit, eyes tracking over Malfoy’s face. He looks so happy, so free and at ease. He blinks. “Where’d you get the Muggle money from anyway?”

Malfoy seems to snap back to himself, and Harry only then realises he was staring at Harry again. “It was already in my coat pocket from London. I guess it must have been brought here with the rest of my clothes.”

Harry thinks about that for a second. “It is really quite strange, isn’t it?” He asks, and they begin walking through the forest quickly. “All of the clothes we actually wear were in the cottage, enough towels, food that somehow keeps appearing in the pantry and fridge… It’s just suspicious.”

“I thought we’d already established that,” Malfoy snorts. “Yes, it’s very strange.”

They keep walking, speaking in hushed tones about nothing important. The conversation somehow loops back to weird work stories, and Harry listens in thoughtful silence as he learns more and more about Malfoy and his job. Malfoy has to leave a lot of details out, changing names and locations, skipping over entire sections. Being an Unspeakable may sound fun, but there’s a lot of protocol and heavy security. Harry doesn’t think he'd be able to keep up with all those rules. 

Harry shares a few of his stories too, after Malfoy begins one that he has to leave things out of more often than not and realises it’s not going to work. He tells Malfoy about this one case where he and Ron were investigating a unicorn trade, and how one of the criminal leaders nearly impaled himself on one of the horns. 

Malfoy laughs at that, and starts talking about his mysterious work partner. Harry knows nothing about this person, not their gender, name, hair or skin colour, nothing. Literally nothing. He understands it’s a security risk, and that the only reason Malfoy can talk about it at all is because they occasionally work together, but it still leaves a massive hole in his imagination. 

By the time they sort their way through the forest—getting lost a couple of times due to the unfamiliar route... and maybe their wild conversation—the sun is setting and the sky is streaked with colour. Harry rushes down the path to the cottage, relishing the fact that the mushy snow has melted away entirely and the path is now clear, and opens the door with a bang. It hits him on the butt as he passes through, and he hears Malfoy’s snort of laughter as he follows. Harry scowls, not that Malfoy can see anyway, and puts the bags down in the kitchen. He turns to help Malfoy, and places some of his bags on the dining table.

They begin putting the groceries away, and Malfoy quickly makes cheese toasties out of the new ingredients. When Harry bites into his once the shopping is away, he nearly moans at how good it tastes. Malfoy looks very smug at the nonverbal praise, and takes a bite of his own. 

“I’m in the bed tonight,” Harry declares with his mouth full of bread and cheese. 

Malfoy nearly chokes and takes a gulp of his water. “What?”

“It’s my turn in the bed.”

“Oh,” Malfoy says, taking another bite. “But I bought everything today.”

Harry scoffs. “Neither of us planned on that, and neither of us are exactly struggling money wise.”

Malfoy just lifts his chin. 

“You can have the bed back tomorrow night.”

Malfoy scowls. “Gee, thanks for your generosity.”

“If it bugs you that much,” Harry says, wiping his mouth, “you could always join me in the bed.” He gives a suggestive waggle of his eyebrows, making Malfoy choke out a laugh again. 

“On second thought, the sofa might not be too bad.”

By the time Harry is climbing into the bed, he is shivering again. He doesn’t know how that works, with him being warm all day outside in the cold but freezing once he’s under so many blankets. He wishes he had a heat pack to stick in the bed, or an electric blanket to really warm him up. Harry shudders with the cold and tries a warming charm. It kind of works for a few minutes, but by the time he’s falling asleep his entire body is covered in goosebumps. He hopes Malfoy isn’t this cold. 


	13. Chapter 13

[A massive white mug of hot chocolate, covered in marshmallows and sprinkles with chocolate sauce drizzled over it]

**December 13th 2003 - Saturday**

Draco wakes up, skin prickled into goosebumps and tremors racking through his body. He shakes and shivers, pulling the blankets tighter around himself. Sitting up, Draco stretches and yawns, wincing as the covers fall away. He blinks his eyes open slowly and finds himself in the living room, sitting on the sofa. 

It feels like his body has been sapped of warmth, his natural body heat drained away into an abyss. He yawns again, his body trying to keep himself awake even as his eyes droop. Draco shakes himself, wraps the blankets more firmly around his shoulders, and stands on wobbly legs. He shivers, cursing, as he makes his way over to the kitchen. A hot drink might help this problem. Draco nods absently to himself, in that weird state of wakefulness where thoughts don’t really exist. All he knows is that he _needs_ to warm up. 

Draco clicks the Muggle kettle on after filling it with an _aguamenti_ , and pulls a simple white mug from the cupboard. He prepares a hot chocolate, and treats himself with marshmallows, bright sprinkles, and an extra dribble of melted chocolate. Carefully carrying the drink, he walks back to the sofa and sits down. His hands burn where the mug touches his skin, and he groans as he breathes in the steam. Draco wraps his hands around the mug and holds it, not trusting himself to take a sip yet, even as the bright colours of the sprinkles call to him. 

“Morning,” Potter mumbles as he shuffles into the living room. Draco looks up at him and frowns. He’s shaking just as much as Draco, bumps risen all over his arms and what’s visible of his chest. Potter seems to blush under the stare, and Draco looks back to his hot chocolate. He lifts it to his lips and takes his first mouthful, only just refraining from spitting it back out when it burns his mouth. 

Potter gives a soft laugh as he drags his feet over to the sofa. Draco watches from where he’s perched near his pillow as Potter flops onto the couch, immediately burrowing his dark face under the blankets. 

“Morning,” Draco responds, knowing his response is too late but not caring. 

Potter grunts from under the covers, goosebumps tracking down his arms even as his breathing evens out. Maybe Draco’s watching him too closely… 

“Why’s it so bloody _cold_ ,” Potter groans, and Draco’s stomach squirms at the sound, trying not to think of other ways to get him to make that noise. 

Draco hums something in response and takes another sip after blowing on the drink. It’s only when he burns his tongue that he realises he was blowing on marshmallows and not the actual drink. He sighs at himself, curses the gods in his head, and places the hot cocoa down on the coffee table. 

Potter shuffles around, moving to a more comfortable position—at least, that’s what Draco _assumes_ he’s doing; there’s no way having his face pressed into the sofa like that is comfortable. He rolls over, tugs the blankets over his skin, and wriggles down into them. Potter hooks the corners over his feet, and sighs as he’s enveloped in a blanket cocoon. Draco doesn’t think that’s an overly bad idea, and hurries to copy him. He lifts the blanket for a split second, folds it down in a complicated pattern his mother taught him as a toddler, and slides inside. If Potter thinks it’s weird how quickly Draco wraps himself up, he doesn’t comment. 

Draco sighs as the cocoon slowly warms him up. He yawns yet again, jaw cracking. Potter makes a sound from the other end of the sofa, and Draco’s skin prickles. He purses his lips as he breaks out in goosebumps again. He’s utterly sick of being freezing cold, even if it’s a little more bearable now. 

Potter gets up after a minute, and Draco watches as he shuffles slowly towards the fireplace. Draco kicks himself, having totally forgotten it was there despite it being right in front of his face. Potter swishes his wand and lights it, holding his hands out to warm them up. He moans as flame licks around his skin, even as Draco cringes. Fire doesn’t sit right with him, and Potter looking so happy in its presence has his chest tightening painfully. 

Potter rocks back on his heels after a moment longer and walks back to the sofa. He catches Draco watching him and his eyes burn with something Draco can’t place. Draco looks away, eyes glancing at the fire cautiously. 

“I’m still bloody freezing,” he grunts, hands clenching the blanket and looking back at Potter. 

Potter sighs. “Same. Nothing’s working.”

Draco swallows, fighting the urge to inch closer. Why the hell would he want to be any closer to Potter? He fights back a groan of discomfort and stops himself. His body is calling for something warm to press against, and that just happens to be Potter right now. He _is_ the closest, warmest thing. Yeah, that must be it. Even so, it can’t happen. Draco can’t afford to allow himself to touch Potter.

Potter, who is shivering and looking at him, want clear in his eyes. Draco frowns. Potter must be contemplating the same thing he is, so why stop it happening? No, Draco shakes himself. He can _not_ lean into the other man. Can’t allow their skin to touch, to warm himself up with him. There are boundaries for a reason, and Draco has no intention of crossing them. 

The man next to him fidgets and stares straight ahead, looking into the flames. Draco watches him curl into a ball and rock and forth, and Draco decides that’s not such a bad idea. He copies Potter, adjusting his blanket cocoon to make it slightly less constricting, and then rocks slowly. Potter glances at him just as Draco looks back, and their eyes lock across the sofa. Draco has to bite into his lip to stop the laugh bursting forth. 

“This is ridiculous.” He gives up, chuckles humorlessly, and unfurls himself from the ball. 

Potter laughs and does the same. He folds his blanket up and lays it over himself so he’s still covered, and goes back to looking at the fire. 

Draco huffs a breath and lies down, lacing his fingers together to fight the still-present urge to reach for the other man. 

It feels like there’s a string wrapped around his hand, slowing being pulled taut. Of course, it’s connected to Potter. Draco feels like the only way to warm up properly is to touch Potter, to move into his personal space. It’s pathetic, and surely just a side effect of his ill-advised emotions. He squeezes his eyes shut, willing himself to think of _anything_ else. A beach, perhaps? Unfortunately, his mind doesn’t seem to want to work for him. Images of Potter swimming, water trekking down his skin that’s shining in the sun, is all that plays behind his eyelids. He rapidly blinks them open. 

If it’s any consolation, he thinks, when he slides his gaze over to Potter he looks uncomfortable too. Looks as if he’s itching to move closer. Draco swallows harshly and tries to relax, tries to find warmth in the sofa and blankets even as he feels the last of his body heat flood away. 

Potter sighs heavily, his breath a loud huff in the near-silent cottage. Then, incredulously, he inches closer. At first, Draco thinks he imagined it. But then it happens again. Draco watches him, and Potter looks directly into his eyes, searching for something. Whatever he was looking for, he seems to find it. Without another word, he shuffles much closer, his body barely a few inches away. Draco swallows, runs a hand through his mussed hair. Gathering his limited courage, he lifts his hips and moves down the sofa. He presses their thighs firmly together, and nearly groans at the warmth he finds there. 

Draco feels his eyelids droop as their combined body heat finally seems to break through the chill. There was no point resisting the urge, it was always going to come to this. He feels Potter duck his head, press it to the top of Draco’s. It takes a lot of willpower to stop himself _moaning_ at the warmth, and he chews the inside of his cheek to prevent it. Potter breathes deeply, and Draco has the sneaking suspicion he’s smelling his hair. Oh well. The proximity is making his head spin anyway, so nothing he _thinks_ he feels can be trusted to be accurate. Potter is probably just falling asleep against him. 

As he thinks that through, he realises that’s not actually too bad an idea; just like Potter’s other ideas this morning. On the contrary, it sounds rather… pleasant. To fall asleep on top of someone else, to have their arms wrap around him and hold him close. Okay, maybe he’s a bit touch starved… He can deal with that later. Draco breathes deeply, slowing his own breathing and allowing himself to melt into the body next to him. He doesn’t care that it’s Potter, that this isn’t something he should be doing. He doesn’t think twice as his eyelids droop, heavy and tired. He doesn’t worry when he drifts off, darkness taking over his vision and dragging him into sleep. 

*~*~*~

There’s something warm and solid pressed up against Draco’s back. It moves softly, pushing harder and then falling away, almost as if to a rhythm of sorts. Draco grunts something unintelligible and focuses on his own body. He can’t feel his arms where they’re trapped under his head, pins and needles prickling his skin uncomfortably. His legs are wrapped around something else equally leg-shaped, and seem to be intertwined with them. His face is bare to the cold air, and he feels goosebumps rise up along his cheeks. 

There’s a soft moan behind him, and Draco nearly jumps out of his skin. His eyes flash open and his heart races, his hands itching for his wand. His wand! Where the fuck is it? It’s not against his thigh, or under his pillow, or— He doesn’t have a pillow…? Why doesn’t he have a pillow?!

“Malfoy?” 

A sleepy voice murmurs his name and Draco whips his head around, not paying attention to the cracking joints. Suddenly, everything comes flooding back. He’s on the sofa, wrapped up in blankets—and apparently, Potter. 

“Potter?” He manages to say, his mouth not quite up to speed with his brain. Draco tries to get up, tries to wriggle out of the other man’s grasp, but he’s held tight. 

Potter hums something under his breath, and then jolts. His entire body tenses where it’s pushed into Draco’s and then his arms unlock, swinging open and dropping Draco as if burned. 

“Shit! Ugh.” Draco rubs his elbow where he landed on the ground. Damn but Potter’s stronger than he looks. “You didn’t need to push me, you douchebag!”

When he looks up at Potter it’s to see embarrassed eyes and reddening cheeks. “Sorry, I panicked.” His voice is quiet, the apology a murmur. 

Draco sighs and nods, accepting the apology without comment. He’d panicked too. 

He stands up properly, cracking his back and—oddly—his knees. Potter grunts something at him again but Draco ignores it, not bothered to try to decipher it. 

Despite being rudely pushed off the sofa and onto the cold floor, Draco is actually quite rested and warm now. A good old-fashioned nap seems to have kick-started his body back into functioning. Not that he hadn’t slept through the night, of course. He probably just needed extra sleep. Nothing at all to do with Potter’s presence and his body wrapped around Draco’s. Nothing at all, surely. 

Draco brushes nonexistent dust off his clothes and searches for his wand. His eyes roam over the sofa and the coffee table where he could have sworn he put it, and come up with nothing. No wand in sight. Draco pushes past the terror starting to grip his heart. His wand has to be _somewhere_ , it’s not like anyone has _taken_ it.

“Looking for this?” 

Draco turns his attention to Potter, only to find him dangling Draco’s wand from his fingers. Draco growls at him and lunges for the wood, snatching it into his hand and backing out of reach instantly. Magic thrums up his arm through the contact, and he feels his body relax again. 

“Why’d you have it?” 

Potter shrugs, shirt falling down one shoulder. His hair is beautifully mussed, and all Draco wants to do is card his hands through it. He doesn’t. “It was digging into my thigh, so you tell me.”

Draco scowls. It must have fallen out of his pocket while he was asleep. Not that he tells Potter that. No, he’ll just let the other man puzzle it out himself. 

Draco casts a silent _tempus_ and feels his eyebrows lift halfway up his forehead. It’s already after midday! They must have slept for quite a while… 

“What’s the time?” Potter’s voice is muffled, and when Draco looks over he discovers that he’s shoved his face into a pillow. Draco holds back a snort of laughter and answers the question, watching in great amusement as Potter stiffens and then flies upwards. “You’re not serious.”

Draco merely nods. “Afraid so. Why, did you have something planned?” Draco can’t keep the sneer out of his tone—there’s nothing Potter could have possibly wanted to do today. All _Draco_ wants to do is curl back up and go to sleep again. 

Potter blinks at him and then glares. “Very funny Malfoy. I can see why you’re an Unspeakable with that attitude.”

Draco feels himself bristle at the jibe towards his work, anger coursing through his blood, but forces it away. There’s no use getting riled up about it when that’s exactly what Potter is trying to do. 

Instead, he nods decisively at him and straightens his clothes out. Pushing away thoughts of Potter and work, Draco realises that the situation they’ve found themselves in is actually quite strange. It’s not everyday that you wake up nestled against your former-enemy turned reluctant colleague turned— turned what? Draco doesn’t know how he’d define this relative peace forming between them, so instead decides to add it to the list of things he’s ignoring. Regardless, something about their current situation isn’t sitting right with him. It feels… strange. Set up, almost. 

“What do you think, Potter?”

“About what?” The man in question lifts his head from the pillow and turns to him, green eyes half-lidded in sleep.

Draco rolls his eyes and nudges him with his finger. “About _lunch_ , obviously.”

Not obviously, not at all. Draco had been about to say something remarkably stupid that has no evidence to be backed up with, and lost his nerve in the last second. He wasn’t placed in Gryffindor for a reason, after all. 

“What would lunch be?” Potter mumbles, flopping his head back down and watching from the corner of his eye. 

Draco shakes his head at him, smoothing down his own clothes and clenching his hands into fists. He can _not_ touch Potter’s hair. “Whatever I give you.”

Potter hums sleepily. “Sure.”

Draco huffs at him, exaggerating his annoyance just to rile Potter up a bit. It doesn't work, Potter apparently too tired to register the sound. Draco walks out of the living room and crosses into the kitchen, flicking through the cupboards. Eventually he decides on pancakes with bacon; more breakfast food than lunch, but Draco doesn’t really think it matters. There’s no one here to criticise them.

Once the food is ready, Potter has made an appearance in the kitchen, leaning his hip against the counter and watching. He makes no move to help as Draco plates the food and pours them both coffee, but does try to carry it all out into the living room. Draco doesn’t let him get far with it before taking the mugs off him—that was a disaster waiting to happen, really. No one can carry two plates and two mugs without spilling anything… except maybe Muggle waiters. They’re geniuses, and Draco has no idea how they do it. 

“Watch it,” Potter calls to him as he puts down their plates. They clink as the stoneware hits the wooden coffee table, and Draco narrowly avoids spilling the coffee all over their pancakes. Maybe he should have taken the _plates_ off Potter instead… 

They manage to get everything down in one piece, and then flop onto the sofa next to each other. Draco pretends he can’t feel Potter’s thigh nearly pressing against his, and pulls his plate towards him. Potter grabs his coffee first, taking a big gulp and then sputtering helplessly. 

“Fucking damnit!” 

“Potter?”

“I burned my god damn tongue _again_!” 

Draco can’t help it, Potter looks so annoyed and his face is so red, and Draco starts laughing. 

“Oh you _prick_!” Potter swears, gently shoving him in an imitation of their past fights. Only this time, there’s no real malice behind the action, and Draco’s stomach burns with something he doesn’t want to acknowledge.

Draco huffs at him and then lashes out with his fists, knocking it into Potter’s jaw. It makes a satisfying clicking sound, but he didn’t hit hard enough to cause any actual damage. Potter snarls at him, a growl escaping from his throat before he reaches for Draco and grabs his neck. 

Draco gasps in surprise, Potter’s hand encircling his throat but not digging into his windpipe. The balance is… not entirely uncomfortable. He heaves in a breath, and then targets the joint connecting Potter’s thumb to his hand and presses down. Potter’s hand gives way and Draco pushes him back before scrambling over to him. He straddles Potter’s thighs and pins him to the sofa, trapping his wrists and locking his ankles over Potter’s own. 

Potter is panting beneath him, and it’s only as Draco’s blood begins cooling that he realises the position they’re now in. He rolls off Potter, pushing away thoughts of other scenarios they could be in that same position for. This is getting ridiculous. He needs to pull it together. 

“How’d you learn to do that?” Potter eventually gasps out, a hand rubbing at his wrists and throat. Anyone would think it was _Potter_ who had had a hand around his neck, not _Draco_. He wonders if it’ll bruise… 

Draco laughs darkly to himself as he is drawn back to the question. “You pick up self defense pretty quickly when you live with Death Eaters.”

Potter’s eyes widen and he sits up in a rush, hands reaching for Draco. “Shit I’m so sorry, I didn’t think—”

Draco holds up a hand, both blocking Potter’s attempts to touch him and his apology. “Don’t worry about it. It was a long time ago.”

Potter shakes his head but Draco just gestures back to their breakfast-lunch-whatever and moves himself away. 

Potter doesn’t look happy about it, but Draco is nothing if not determined. He picks up his knife and fork—fork in left, knife in right, like you’re _supposed_ to—and starts cutting pieces of pancake off for himself. Potter huffs next to him but slides back into place, picking up his mug to try the coffee again. Draco watches from the corner of his eye as Potter drinks, trying not to make it too obvious as his eyes fix on Potter’s throat. Draco’s eyes go dark as his Adam’s apple bobs, and he hurriedly looks away. He blinks rapidly, trying futilely to clear his eyes of the lust boiling behind them. The last thing he needs is for Potter to catch it under there. 

*~*~*~

“Are you done?” 

“Hmm?” 

Potter clears his throat awkwardly. “Are you finished?”

“Oh, yeah.” Draco passes Potter his cleared plate and empty mug and watches as he carries them, along with his own, back into the kitchen. Potter places them in the sink and immediately sets the water running to clean them. Draco looks on as Potter uses magic to speed up the process of warming the water, but then switches to the Muggle method of dish soap and waiting. Potter turns and catches Draco’s raised eyebrow. 

“What.”

Not a question. Draco’s either unintentionally pushed Potter’s buttons somehow, or Potter already knows the answer to his not-question. “Nothing, just watching you.”

Potter’s eyes narrow. “Why?”

Draco shrugs, averting his gaze. “Why not?”

Potter doesn’t reply, just walks back to the sofa and sits down, much closer than Draco would like. 

“We need to talk.”

Four words, and Draco’s heart is now hammering in his chest. What could Potter possibly need to talk to him about? Why _we_? Draco doesn’t know, and he hates the uneven footing between them right now. Of course, he says none of this out loud. “What about?” He asks, carefully smoothing his voice out to hide his unease.

Potter sighs, his breath nearly coming out in a whistle. “About us falling asleep together.”

Draco freezes. He’d hoped they wouldn’t address that. Wishful thinking. “If I remember correctly, _you_ fell asleep on _me_.”

Potter’s dark cheeks blush a warm red, and he fights with what to say for a second. “Yet I woke up to you pressed against me, so you’re not exactly innocent in this either.”

Draco’s cheeks heat, and he prays to the gods he normally curses that it’s not visible. “Yes well…”

Potter takes a deep breath and shuffles around so he’s facing Draco. “I think it’s a side effect of the Vanishing Cabinet.”

Draco was not expecting that at all. 

“Think about it. We both touched it and were dropped out of the sky together. Hardly normal behaviour for an inanimate object.”

Now that Draco _is_ thinking about it, he does find it a bit odd. “What does that have to do with sleeping though?”

Potter shrugs. Chews on his lower lip. “Maybe it’s slowly forcing us to be near each other?” He seems to think that over more and shakes his head. “No. It’s probably just making us less uncomfortable with each other.”

Draco nods, lost in thought. “That’s… not a bad theory. There might be something woven into the magic that slowly alters emotions…” 

“That must be why we felt comfortable enough to fall asleep next to each other.”

Draco hums in reply. 

He’s not sure that’s completely correct. Okay, maybe he _did_ need to catch up on sleep, and maybe the Cabinet is slowly undoing the unease between them. But it’s still entirely possible that it’s just human nature to seek warmth when cold, and the only thing remotely warm was Potter. Draco doesn’t want to admit this to said man however, in case Potter starts piecing things together. Such as the fact that Draco actually quite liked the embrace. Liked the feeling of arms around him and a chest against his back. Maybe it’s not the Cabinet at all, and is just the natural product of them spending so much time together. 

Draco doesn’t want to think about it though, and supposes he can add it to the ever growing list of things he’s ignoring. He swears, each day more and more things pile up. By the time they’re out of here, it’s going to be a mile long! 

“Okay, well, glad we got that out of the way.”

Draco turns to Potter, finding him chewing his lip and tucking his hair behind his ear. Draco’s chest lightens and feels like it’s floating. 

“Yeah, now all we need to do is find a way back.”

“Tomorrow. I think we both deserve a day off,” Potter says, curling up to go back to sleep once again.

*~*~*~

Draco spends the rest of the day wrapped in a hoodie with the sleeves pushed up and a paintbrush in his hand. The hoodie came from the closet in the bedroom, and Draco doesn’t remember ever seeing it before. It’s definitely not his. The fact it smells kind of like Potter is irrelevant, and plays absolutely no part in him wearing it. 

His paintings are coming along nicely, even though he had to start Blaise’s all over again. He’d just finished the rose, the pale pink and orange brush strokes drying. It looked absolutely perfect. Until Draco had found a crease in the canvas, and realised it was a Muggle one. Draco had wanted to curse and kick and scream, but he’d managed to remain calm. The canvas needs to be magic so he can layer the charms he wants over it, otherwise the paint somehow ravels off like thread. 

Draco holds a pencil in one hand and a glass of water in the other. He takes a sip, eyes never leaving the canvas and the outline drawn on it. The gentle lines look right, a massive rose blooming in vibrant colours and petals wet with tiny raindrops. Draco thinks it’s absolutely perfect for Blaise. He places the pencil and glass down, picking up a delicate paintbrush and a palette with the colours already mixed from his last attempt. He needs to get this right this time, he doesn’t know if he’ll have the patience to do it again. 

With a careful hand, Draco dips the brush into a bit of water and immediately presses it to the canvas. He swirls the clear water around the lines making up the stem until they bleed out, and then he begins actually painting. A soft brown, something easy to cover up and hide later down the track, works its way up the stem, tracing over tiny thorns and dipping into the bud. Draco loses himself in the gentle patterns and mind numbing sensation art always brings out in him. It’s the perfect way to relax, the only way he feels at home anymore.

*~*~*~

Three hours later and the sun is setting, streaking the sky out the window in pinks and purples. It reflects off the new canvas in front of Draco, where the beginnings of a present to himself lie. He has an idea for something absolutely amazing, absolutely breathtaking, and he needs to get it out. So, while waiting for the first layer of Blaise’s present to dry, Draco had thought he would start. The graceful arcs on the canvas tempt him to keep going, but another thud from the living room reminds him why he’d stopped.

Potter is doing something in the other room, making lots of noise as if dropping things. Only, it’s been going on for about fifteen minutes by now, and there’s no way Potter’s _that_ clumsy, despite what Draco may have thought previously. He sighs, stretches his hands out, and pushes his chair out from the transfigured desk. Once he’s standing, he flicks his wand and it reverts back into the chest of drawers, his paints flying back into the crevices they came out from. His paintings lie on top of it to dry, and as soon as he’s checked them over, he leaves the bedroom. 

He finds Potter lying on the living room floor, furniture rearranged around him to create a clearing. He’s shirtless, and sweat trickles down his chest as he pulls himself up in a sit up. Draco’s mouth goes dry as their eyes lock, and Potter stares for a second before rolling back to the ground. Warmth rushes to Draco’s cheeks as he watches Potter workout, making no move to leave. 

Potter taps his feet and unfolds himself, standing up as if this is a totally normal situation. He rolls his shoulders back and cracks his neck, eyes finding Draco’s.

“What are you doing?” Draco asks, voice barely above a whisper. He curses his shaky words. 

“Working out,” Potter says with a shrug, reaching for a towel and dragging it across his forehead. “Why are _you_ covered in paint?”

Draco’s eyes widen and he looks down at himself, blushing furiously when he realises he _is_ covered in paint. Pinks, oranges, and a bit of green all splashed across skin. “I was painting.”

Potter rolls his eyes. He flicks his wand at Draco and the paint is cleared from his skin. Draco nods his thanks. “Also, is that my hoodie?”

His voice is teasing, but it just makes Draco sputter and choke slightly. “It- it was in the wardrobe.” 

Potter lifts an eyebrow in a perfect imitation of Draco’s habit, but says nothing as he shakes his head. “Wanna join me?”

Draco starts, not expecting that at all. He thinks about it though. He doesn’t really work out that much, doing the bare minimum to stay fit enough for his job and not much else. The idea of exercising alongside Potter is… a bit thrilling, honestly. Draco doesn’t know why, but he doesn’t care. He nods, accepting the offer, and pulls the traitorous hoodie off. 

Potter beams at him. “I’m up to burpees, but you’re welcome to do anything else.”

Draco shakes his head. “I’ll warm up a bit and then join you.” He bloody hates burpees, but he wants to do them with Potter next to him. Wants to feel as if he’s a part of something. So he peels his long sleeve shirt off too, throws it onto the sofa, and starts with star jumps. 

By the time Potter is sweating again and swearing as he pushes himself up to jump, Draco is warm enough to begin. His blood pulses in his ears, thrumming against his head and drowning out most thoughts. There’s only two that plague his mind, one screaming at him for working out in the middle of winter, and the other delighted that he’s seeing Potter shirtless and dripping. Draco shakes his head, takes a swig of water, and jumps. His feet clear the ground and he lands again, immediately falling to his chest and pushing himself up to jump again. His heart hammers in his chest, but Potter grins at him and it’s all worth it.


	14. Chapter 14

[Buche de Noel (or Yule Log) dessert on a white platter]

**December 14th 2003 - Sunday**

Harry shivers, another tremor wracking through his freezing body. It’s so bloody cold, and nothing he does seems to help him. No amount of jumpers or heaps of blankets, no matter how close he sits to the fire. The glowing, warm, orange fire. It flickers in the night air, dancing in the silence and sending ash over Harry whenever he gets too close. 

What else can he do to warm up? He’s tried warming charms on both himself and the room at large, and neither had much of an affect. Harry yawns, his jaw clicking and eyes closing with the force of it. His teeth start chattering, and he realises he’s now cold _inside_ as well. The goosebumps along his arms are beginning to hurt where they are pressed against the fabric of his sweater, and Harry has had just about enough. He tries to think, face screwing up with the effort of actual, coherent thought.

A bowl of nice, warm soup flashes behind his eyelids, and Harry could jump for joy. Soup! Why hadn’t he thought of that sooner? He slowly shifts his weight, unwilling to lose his blanket cocoon. He tightens his grip around it, knuckles going white and then red from the cold. Harry suppresses another shiver and stands up, feet hitting the floor. Pins and needles fill them, and Harry wants to scream at the fact his _feet_ are asleep while he himself is totally incapable of it. He’s always hated the cold. Harry takes a breath, stifles a yawn, grits his teeth, and stands on wobbly legs. 

His feet immediately give way, unable to support his weight with pinpricks of pain shooting through him. Harry tumbles backwards, hitting the couch with a thud that’s absurdly loud in the quiet. He huffs, his breath cold as it hits his face. Trying again, this time Harry clutches the arm of the sofa and holds himself up. His feet still strain and shake, but he’s standing up. Impatient even with his minor success, he stomps his feet to try and get the blood circulating again. 

Harry bites back a groan of pain as his feet slowly awaken and leave sparse pin pricks over his skin. This is always the worst part, once they’re no longer numb and instead just sore. He grits his teeth, clenching them in a way Hermione would scowl at him for. Harry’s heart squeezes at the thought of his friend and the fact he hasn’t seen her for two weeks, and it’s enough of a distraction to get him moving. 

Harry’s left foot shifts forward, sliding along the floor. His right one follows and passes it, and he repeats these slow steps again. He pulls his hands away from the couch, prying them off the arm and hoping he doesn’t fall. He doesn’t need any more bruises. 

When he manages to stay upright, Harry releases a sigh and shuffles forward again. His heart rises in his throat as he wobbles, but with a desperate push of his shoulders forward, he rights his balance. Harry closes his eyes, shivers, and takes another step. He turns his thoughts to the soup he’s going to make, anything to distract himself from the cold and remaining numbness of his feet. He tosses up between a few: pumpkin, tomato, chicken and sweet corn, and pea and ham. All of them delicious, and all of them capable of warming him up. 

As Harry reaches the kitchen, he settles on pumpkin. It’s what his friends would have made him if he was with them, and he needs anything he can get to remind him of them. So he pulls out bowls and pots, and begins chopping things up as best he can without dislodging the blankets around his shoulders. 

Twenty minutes later, there is a steaming pot on the stove that smells heavenly. Harry scoops some into a bowl, not bothering with any final touches, and carries it over to the couch. Harry wobbles a bit, soup threatening to splosh out onto the tiles a couple of times. He grits his teeth, tightens his grip on the blankets _and_ the bowl, and slowly makes his way back into the living room. 

Of course, Malfoy picks this exact moment to come running out of the hallway, and narrowly avoids knocking into Harry. Harry fumes, his blood boiling as the soup splashes against the lip of the bowl. It doesn’t spill, thank god, but Harry still has the undeniable urge to kick Malfoy’s head in. 

“Shit! Didn’t see you there Potter.” Malfoy moves out of the way quickly, as if sensing Harry’s barely restrained fury. He holds his hands up in defence before racing into the kitchen. “I thought I smelled pumpkin soup!”

Harry goes from enraged to astonished in a matter of seconds. “How the bloody hell did you smell that from the bedroom?”

Malfoy’s head snaps up from where it's hanging over the pot, as if surprised he’s being addressed. He shakes his head, breathes in deeply, sighs, and fetches a bowl. Only once he’s scooped some of it out of the pot in a rather large serving, does he answer Harry’s question. 

“My mother always got the house elves to make it for me when I was cold. I can smell it a mile away now.”

“Literally,” Harry murmurs.

Malfoy doesn’t comment, just walks back to the living with his bowl and a spoon in hand. He brushes past Harry, and Harry tenses at the sparks lighting up his skin. 

“What’s with the blanket cloak?” Malfoy asks as he sinks into the couch and pulls his bowl close. He shuts his eyes and breathes in the steam again, before shovelling a spoonful into his mouth with all the grace of a Weasley. 

Harry shakes his head in amusement, moving to sit down too. “Its freezing, and I couldn’t warm up.”

“So you wrapped—what’s that, three?—blankets around yourself?” He raises a delicate eyebrow at Harry, and hums around his next spoonful. 

“I see you like the soup,” Harry teases quietly, trying not to imagine other ways he could get Malfoy to make those noises. 

“It’s really good,” Malfoy replies, “but you didn’t answer my question.”

Harry shrugs. “Didn’t know it needed one.”

Malfoy looks horrified at the idea of his question going unanswered, but it just makes Harry more determined to remain silent. 

It’s only as Harry takes another swallow of his soup that he realises he’s no longer bone-shakingly cold. He moans around his mouthful, exceedingly glad his idea worked. 

“You like it too, by that sound,” Malfoy mutters, not facing Harry. 

Harry’s face warms, and as he looks up he notices how close he is sitting to Malfoy. Strangely enough, he’s not overcome by the urge to move away. Instead, he wants to rest back into Malfoy’s touch, to fall asleep next to him again. He sighs, shakes his head, and forces himself to pull away. He’d had enough trouble convincing Malfoy that them falling asleep together was just because of the cold, if he practically drapes himself over the other man, he might be a bit less persuadable. 

Not that Malfoy seems to notice Harry’s internal war. He just sits there, knees drawn up now that he’s finished his soup, staring into space. Harry looks at him, really _looks_ at him, for the first time in a while. His eyes rake over the thin and shiny hair, over the stretch of pale skin making up an unblemished forehead. Malfoy has always had nice skin, and Harry finds it utterly unfair that he almost never breaks out. His gaze moves to arched eyebrows, just a shade more brown than his hair. Harry swallows as he looks at Malfoy’s eyes, losing himself in the unnatural grey. But that’s just it, they’re _completely_ natural, and therefore captivating. 

Before Harry can make his way to Malfoy’s cheeks, lips, and chin, Malfoy has noticed the attention. He turns a curious eye to Harry but doesn’t say anything. The only indication he’s aware of what Harry is doing is in the smug curve of his mouth. 

“Do you want some more food?” Malfoy suddenly asks. He flinches, as if shocked that he just spoke. 

Harry chuckles, unable to help himself at the wide eyes looking at him. “Sure, what is there?”

Malfoy shrugs, stands, and carries his and Harry’s bowls back into the kitchen. Harry hears them fall into the sink, and when he looks back to Malfoy, he finds him shaking and gasping. 

Harry springs to his feet, overcome with the need to get to Malfoy, to support him and make sure he knows he’s okay. The blankets fall off his shoulders as he races for the other man, and he doesn’t hesitate before wrapping his arms around him. Malfoy groans and struggles, trying to push Harry away, but Harry’s grip is too strong. If Malfoy were to actually try, instead of barely exerting any pressure, he'd be able to get away fairly easily. Harry knows he’s in a bad state. 

“Shh, sh,” he murmurs, head leaning into Malfoy’s and his mouth near his ear. Harry holds him still, fingers stroking Malfoy’s bony shoulders in small circles. He holds Malfoy close to him, rocks him gently, and lets Malfoy grow accustomed to being held. He knows Malfoy doesn’t get much physical contact, his colleagues shying away from him most of the time and his friends not being particularly touchy, so Harry isn’t sure how Malfoy feels about this. 

“All you need to do is breathe,” he whispers. Malfoy shudders against him, body shaking slightly. “You’re okay, you’re safe, and I’m here.”

Malfoy nods, hands curling into Harry’s jumper and holding tight. He sniffles, gasps, and fights back tears. His jaw clenches, tight against Harry’s chest. Harry’s heart clenches at how quickly Malfoy came undone. 

They stand like that for a while, bodies close and hearts beating in time. Harry counts his breaths, squeezes Malfoy occasionally, and tries his best to be a silent comfort. Malfoy eventually calms down, his shaking slowing, and his breathing evening out. He doesn’t make to move away, and Harry is somewhat pleased by this. It speaks volumes of how far they’ve come over the years; over these past two weeks. 

“Come on,” Harry murmurs, hands slipping down to Malfoy’s elbows. He doesn’t move them away, just places his own over them and guides Malfoy back to the couch. 

Malfoy moves with him easily, being led back to his seat and made comfortable. Harry rearranges the dropped blankets over his body, and turns to search for food in the kitchen. Malfoy makes a sound in the back of his throat and Harry turns his head to find Malfoy’s eyes on him. Their normally beautiful grey is clouded over with worry and hurt, and Harry doesn’t know what else to do. He shoots a soft smile at him and decides to worry about it once they get some food. 

Harry opens the pantry, eyes searching for something comforting but light. He doesn’t find anything though, and huffs as he shuts the cupboard. Trust the bloody magical cottage to find the worst time ever to not be helpful. He tries the fridge next, and his jaw drops open as he spots something utterly perfect. It’s a Buche de Noel, and Harry’s stomach rumbles just looking at it. He carefully pulls it out of the fridge, lifts it up and places it on the counter. 

Harry hums in delight as he looks at it; the sponge looks gorgeous, and the cream is so beautifully white. He knows Malfoy will love it, he just needs to get it to him. Harry slides two plates out of a cupboard and slices off a couple of pieces. He spells the Buche de Noel back to the fridge, and carries the plates to the living room. 

Malfoy is curled in on himself underneath the blanket, his eyes red rimmed and swollen. He looks up at Harry though, and breaks into a grin. At first, Harry thinks he’s smiling because of the dessert in front of him, but then he sees that Malfoy’s actually looking at _him_. Harry’s stomach flutters with something suspiciously like joy, and he tries to stamp it down as he passes Malfoy a plate. Malfoy’s eyes fall to the offered treat, and he sniffs again. 

“Thank you, Harry.”

Harry’s heart stops beating for a second, and when it picks back up it thuds loudly. 

_Harry._

Harry swallows around the sudden lump in his throat. “It’s no problem, Draco.”

The name rolls off his tongue, soft and so much more gentle than ‘Malfoy’. It’s more… intimate. Harry blinks twice before sliding back onto the couch, pretending that this strange moment didn’t just happen. The last thing he needs right now is to get his hopes up that maybe, just maybe, Malfoy likes him back. No, he needs to concentrate on getting them out of here. Besides, Malfoy is probably just caught up in the comfort Harry offered him. Yeah, that has to be it. 

Except, when he braves a look back at Malfoy, it’s to find a small smile and sparkling eyes watching his own plate; a stark difference to what was there a few seconds before. 

*~*~*~

Harry fiddles with the cotton, his fingertips tracing over the fabric. It feels satisfying against his skin, as if it was made to slot into it and never fall away. The thought turns Harry’s stomach somewhat, reminding him of the locket that literally burned its way into his chest. He swallows dryly, and it must be audible because Malfoy turns a strange expression to him. 

Harry feels heat rise to his cheeks, but he doesn’t pay it any mind. His thoughts turn back to Friday, and his expression becomes one of deep thought. He feels his brows furrowed and a crease form between them, but he ignores it. How come that girl didn’t know anything about the abandoned village or the cottage? They definitely aren’t hidden, and the villages are almost identical. Harry had just assumed that they had relocated for whatever reason, but that clearly isn’t the case. 

When he voices his thoughts to Malfoy, he receives a curious hum in response. 

“Yeah, it is kind of odd,” Malfoy says, voice scratchy from crying not even ten minutes earlier. Of course, if Harry were to tell him that he’d only get a glare and denial in return. 

“It’s _very_ odd. None of the people there appeared to know anything about another village or this cottage. Hell, the cashier didn’t even believe this place exists!” Harry frowns, chewing his lip like he’s in the habit of doing. 

Malfoy clucks, a popping sound coming from his mouth. He doesn’t say anything though, and Harry continues ploughing on.

“We should probably go check them out again at some point. They might hold the clue to getting back to London.”

Malfoy scowls at him. He opens his mouth to reply—more likely snap, if his expression is anything to go by—but seems to think better as it clicks shut. Malfoy broods for a second longer before schooling his features. “Wanna play chess?”

Harry quirks an eyebrow. “Now?”

Malfoy shrugs, as if to say ‘why not?’

“Where would we get a chess board from anyway?” Harry asks.

In response, Malfoy flicks his wand and a board comes flying out of the bedroom. He doesn’t say anything, just wordlessly sets it up and turns a smug glance to Harry. 

“Okay, yeah, whatever.”

“Eloquent as always, Potter.”

“Back to Potter, am I?” Harry can’t help it, there’s just something about Malfoy calling to be riled up. 

Malfoy scowls at him again, and Harry suddenly wishes he could take it back. He never wants something he’s said to cause Malfoy any sort of pain or conflict. “It was… a temporary lapse in judgement, that’s all, Potter.”

Harry huffs, chest suddenly tight. He doesn’t say anything though. What could he possibly say to someone who hides behind false pretences to get through? Malfoy’s self preservation can sometimes be a bit _too_ strong, and now it’s Harry’s turn to experience the pain that can cause. 

“Come on, let’s play this bloody game,” he says instead, choosing to ignore his pain. 

Malfoy nods, eyes closed off but sad again. Harry doesn’t think about it too hard, instead setting up his side of the board—the black pieces, of course. Trust Malfoy to give himself the white ones. 

Malfoy moves a pawn forwards two squares, and Harry grins at him as he moves one of his own forwards. The man opposite him merely turns his mouth into a sly smile, and slides his queen all the way out the side. Harry’s confused. He’s never picked it up properly. It’s quite hard to learn when the only person willing to play wins every time with no struggle. Harry sighs, and decides he’ll play it safe. He moves a second pawn forward two places.

He knows he’s lost when Malfoy chokes out a laugh. Harry’s eyes widen as Malfoy moves his queen through the gap Harry just created… and straight for his king. Malfoy is laughing uncontrollably at him as the pieces collide. 

“That right there Potter, is a Fool’s Mate.” Malfoy wipes tears—literal _tears—_ out of the corners of his eyes as he resets the board. “That’s the fastest win you can get.”

Harry huffs at him, but it’s a struggle not to laugh as well. “I’ve only ever versed Ron, and at some point I stopped _trying_ to learn.”

“Is he that bad?” Malfoy asks, eyebrow curving into an arch. 

Harry shakes his head. “No, I can never beat him. He’s a genius at it.”

Malfoy bites back another laugh. “Or you’re just awful.”

“That too,” Harry agrees with a smile. 

Malfoy shakes his head at him, blond hair flying free and into his eyes. He lifts a hand to tuck it behind his ear and makes his first move. 

*~*~*~

Half an hour later, Harry is thoroughly sick of chess. He hasn’t won a single game, and Malfoy can’t help but pick apart Harry’s every move once the round is over. Harry spoons another mouthful of his second serving of Buche de Noel into his mouth as the board is cleared yet again. 

“Do you want to try something else?” Malfoy asks, tucking his hair behind his ear in the way Harry’s become obsessed with. 

He nods happily, swallowing his mouthful of delicious chocolate sponge. “What do you want to play?”

Malfoy shrugs. “Why don’t you pick? Something you actually like, maybe.”

Harry grins. “Who says I don’t like chess?!”

Malfoy just looks at him like he’s mad, like someone who loses four games in a row can’t _possibly_ like it. “Fine, _I’ll_ choose.”

“No no no!” Harry rushes to say. “I’ll find something.”

Malfoy laughs at him, a true, ringing laugh, and sends the board flying back to the bedroom. 

Harry leaps up off the couch, suddenly certain that he can find something he’ll _thrash_ Malfoy in. He doesn’t know what exactly the cottage will have, but he has to be able to find something. Deciding that since the chess board came from the bedroom, it would only make sense that there might be others there too, Harry jogs down the hallway and pushes into the room. His eyes immediately begin scanning the room for a game. 

Of course, that’s not what Harry finds at all.

Resting against the chest of drawers, there are two canvases. The first he’s seen before, a rose staring up at him from the carpet. The second though… 

It’s gorgeous, although obviously not finished yet. All it _really_ looks like is a bunch of curves, but they are so graceful and purposeful, that Harry—who knows absolutely nothing about art—can just tell it will be amazing. There’s no doubt in his mind that Malfoy’s painted them, and if this second one is anywhere near as good as the flowers he’s already finished, it will deserve to be in a museum. 

Harry realises he’s been staring at the canvas for way too long and tears his eyes away. When he turns to face the rest of the room he sees a pile of game boxes sitting near the bed. He doesn’t remember seeing them before, but decides not to question it. The cottage is always doing weird, unexplainable things. 

Choosing battleships, Harry walks back to the living room. He finds Malfoy eating yet another slice of cake and a mug of peppermint tea waiting for him on the coffee table. Harry’s eyes meet Malfoy’s as he licks some of the cake off his mouth. Harry’s eyes darken and go out of focus, everything blurring out except Malfoy. Malfoy, who just sits there as if nothing’s wrong. Harry swallows hard, blinks to clear his vision, and forces himself to calm down. He slides onto the couch and throws the game onto the table, grabbing the mug of tea and burning his tongue as he takes a swallow. 

“Battleships? Really, Potter?” Malfoy wipes his hand across his mouth and sucks some of the cream off it, completely unaware of the tightening in Harry’s chest at the action. 

Harry forces himself to smirk, trying to replicate the smug look Malfoy often parades about in. “I’ve never been beaten.”

“Then you haven’t played against anyone good, have you?” Malfoy drawls, eyes sparkling despite the uninterested look on his face. He thinks he’s going to win. Harry’s got another thing coming for him. 

“You’ll just have to see, won’t you?”

It turns out Malfoy’s not half bad, and that fact has Harry barely holding back growls of frustration. He’d thought he’d win by a landslide. That said, he _is_ still winning, so that has to count for something. Right? He’s doing better than he did at chess at any rate. 

“B3.” He’s confident Malfoy has a ship there, it makes sense with the spaces he’s already used. 

“Miss.”

“What?!” Harry’s eyes widen, brows drawing down. 

“Miss,” Malfoy repeats, smirk tugging at his lips. “F8.”

Harry curses. “Hit.”

Malfoy grins as he plugs in another marker and proceeds to sink the entire ship while Harry struggles to even locate one. 

“How the fuck did you beat me?!” He asks a few minutes later. Malfoy sank all of his ships and Harry only managed to sink one. He shakes his head in frustration. 

“I told you Potter. You’ve clearly never played against anyone _good_.”

Harry snarls but decides it isn’t worth it. He holds his hand out, nudging Malfoy with it. Malfoy just looks at it like it’s a disease. 

“What’s this?”

Harry rolls his eyes. “My hand. For you to shake, since you won.”

Malfoy looks like he’ll say no and tell Harry to piss off, but then he clasps his own around it and shakes it. Harry tries to tell himself that Malfoy’s hand isn’t really soft and that it doesn’t matter if it _is_ , but his brain short circuits before he can get there. 

When Harry finally shakes himself out of it, Malfoy has dropped his hand and looks smug and intrigued. He doesn’t say anything as Harry sets the game up again for a rematch. Harry _will_ beat him this time; he doesn’t think he’d be able to look him in the eye ever again if he loses _twice_.

*~*~*~

Harry lost the second game, and the one after it too. He’d finally given up when Malfoy had won in under five minutes. 

Now though, they’re sitting close together on the couch, and Harry is trying to resist the urge to touch Malfoy. He’s so _close_ , so pale and warm, so _inviting_. But Harry won’t touch him, won’t allow himself to fall down the hole that is Malfoy. 

“Potter?” Malfoy asks, voice slurred slightly. His hands are wrapped around his third glass of wine, and his cheeks are tinted ever so slightly pink. Harry thinks it rather endearing, not that he’d tell Malfoy that. 

“Malfoy.” Harry’s on his second tumbler of Irish whiskey and isn’t as affected as Malfoy seems to be, but there’s still a pleasant buzzing in his ears. 

“Are you scared?”

Harry’s thoughts flash to a conversation from years ago, where words very similar held a sneer instead of an astounding amount of sincerity. 

“Depends. What of?”

Harry hears Malfoy swallow and pulls his gaze away from his throat. “Christmas. Being stuck here with me.”

Harry blinks. That wasn’t what he’d been expecting at all. “Not really. I mean, I’d like to be home for Christmas, but I guess it wouldn’t be the worst thing to spend it with you.”

Malfoy seems startled by the response. “You have to be afraid of missing _something_ though.”

Harry thinks about it. Aside from the usual Christmas lunches and funny competitions with the Weasley’s and his friends, there’s isn’t much he’d miss. Except Teddy. “I guess… I’d be missing Teddy’s fifth Christmas.”

Malfoy nods, a surprisingly thoughtful look in his eye for someone quite drunk. He’s a lightweight, and Harry wants to laugh at him for it. “That must be hard.”

Harry swallows. It’s only now he’s saying it out loud that he realises how concerned he actually is. He’d be totally failing as a godfather if he didn’t make it back in time. He doesn’t even have anything for him! Harry feels his eyes begin to prickle and burn, and he bites down on his cheeks to stop the tears arriving. 

“I’m worried about missing something too.” Malfoy’s soft voice is loud in the quiet of the night. 

“Yeah?” Harry asks, voice soft too. 

Malfoy hums. “Me and my partner… go out and get _drunk_ on Christmas Eve.”

Harry’s heart falls. _Partner_? He hadn’t thought Malfoy was dating anyone. He swallows, chest tight and sinking. “Who’s your partner?” He doesn’t think he wants to know the answer, but he doesn’t think he’ll be able to get past it without knowing. 

Malfoy only shakes his head. “I can’t say who they are, and I refuse to answer any questions about their identity. I _will_ say though, that they’re very good at the job.”

Job? _Oh_. Harry’s heart starts beating again, picking up when he realises Malfoy’s talking about a work partner. 

“How good?” He asks, voice breathy now that he isn’t weighed down and feeling sick. 

Malfoy chuckles. “Nearly better than me.”

Harry lifts his eyebrows. “Impossible.”

That single word pulls a grin from Malfoy, and Harry finds himself returning it full force. 

“How come I haven’t met them? I’ve worked with _you_ for years.”

Malfoy waves a dismissive hand. “Oh, I’m sure you have. You just didn’t know it.”

Harry nods. “How often do you… go out?”

“Not very often. They prefer to keep their work and personal lives separate.”

“Understandable.” A lot of Harry’s coworkers are the same, limiting out-of-office socialising to Friday pub nights. “How close are you to them?”

Malfoy huffs a small laugh. “Not very. We work together five days a week, but we don’t really talk about ourselves, you know? The only time we really speak is when we’re drunk, which means we don’t remember any of it.” 

Harry chuckles softly at that.

He’s relieved that Malfoy was referring to a work partner, and even more so that he isn’t particularly close to them. Harry swallows dryly and takes another long sip of his whiskey. If he’s being honest with himself, he knows exactly why he feels that way. If he pieces together all the things he’s been ignoring and examines them, they clearly join into one thing. Harry likes Malfoy. 

No, it’s more than that. It’s not just a passing fascination, not just something that will fade away and die. No. Harry thinks he might be falling in love with him. The word scares Harry, but he knows it’s the most accurate. He feels like it’s been building up for years, accelerated in the past two weeks. He knows he wants Malfoy, wants him in every way. Harry wants Malfoy under him, moaning and panting. He wants him sitting against him, thighs touching innocently. He wants Malfoy smiling and crying, laughing and screaming. He wants him soft and pliant but also scared and shaking. Harry wants to chase away his nightmares, to hold him still and kiss away the horrors. 

So Harry’s relieved that Malfoy isn’t dating this mysterious person. He doesn’t know what he’d do if Malfoy was happy and in love with someone other than him. 

When Harry rises out of his daze and looks back at Malfoy, he finds him falling asleep against the couch. His wine glass is slipping from his fingers, wobbling dangerously. Harry smiles at the sight and reaches for the glass. He sends it and his own empty glass flying to the kitchen to be dealt with later, and turns to Malfoy. 

“Come on,” he says softly as he reaches for the other man. Harry tugs Malfoy down so he’s lying on the couch instead of perched on the arm, and slides a pillow under his head. He pulls a blanket over him, tucking Malfoy in. 

“ _Harry_ ,” Malfoy mumbles before burrowing his head into the pillow. 

Harry’s heart skips a beat and his body flushes with warmth. A hand wraps itself around Harry’s arms and tightens as Harry goes to pull away. Malfoy’s pale fingers should look jarring against Harry’s dark skin, but all it looks is _right_. Harry smiles and knows he’ll give in, knows he’ll do exactly as he’s being silently asked. 

With one last glance at Malfoy, Harry pulls his own shirt off and drops it to the floor. He lifts the blanket and slides in under it, and he’s immediately being grabbed. Arms wrap his chest and neck, icy feet pressing against his legs. Harry sighs, accepting his fate, and turns around so his head can rest against Malfoy’s chest. He breathes in the other man’s scent and wraps his arms around him, pulling him closer. Harry drifts off to sleep like that, wrapped up in Draco Malfoy. 


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the delay! I hope you enjoy it Xx

****

[Colourful Christmas lights on the floor]

**December 15th 2003 - Monday**

Draco wakes up to something solid around his waist, to his chest pressed against something warm. He’s not cold for the first time in days, and it’s enough to make him sigh and snuggle in further. Whatever it is he’s wrapped in moves with him, shifting against his chest. Draco hums softly, his voice rough with sleep. 

As it shuffles against him yet again, Draco slowly realises that whatever it is must be _alive_. He blinks one bleary eye open, not yet ready to let light into his morning. Draco sighs in annoyance as he lifts his head from whatever it’s pressed against. Light rushes into his vision and momentarily blinds him, and Draco throws an arm up over his eyes. His head spins and it’s all he can do to keep it up. He blinks, trying to clear his vision, and looks down. 

Potter. Harry Potter is sleeping next to him, their chests touching and legs entwined on the sofa. Draco’s heart stops, his breathing pausing as he takes it in. Potter’s hair is a mess, draped over his forehead and sticking up in odd angles. His face is relaxed though, features smooth and breaths even in sleep. He lets out a soft sound as Draco pulls further away, fully intending to slip away and tiptoe into the bed. 

Something in Potter’s broken sound halts him though. His subconscious mind doesn’t want Draco leaving. Potter’s arms tighten in their place around Draco’s waist, keeping him firmly against Potter. Draco sighs, eyes falling closed again. He’s always liked waking up next to people, light streaming through blinds and warming them. He looks into Potter’s face again, and is overcome by the urge to _touch_. 

Potter’s skin looks so soft and warm, supple. His normally sharp jaw is relaxed, and his lips are parted on his breaths. Draco wants to touch them, to trace their shape with his finger. He feels his own breath morph into soft pants, and he has no hope of stopping himself from doing it. It was a lost cause really, something he was bound to give into the second he woke up. 

He wars with himself silently, his mind taking a different side than his body. His fingers itch with the need to track down Potter’s skin, tingle with the desire to feel Potter beneath him. His mind is more reasonable though. There’s no point touching something that can’t ever be, that Draco won’t ever be able to have. Potter would surely snap his hand off if he knew what Draco was thinking about. But that’s just it, isn’t it? Potter’s asleep, and Draco just woke up next to him. 

There’s nothing for it, he thinks as his hand rises of its own accord. His body is going to win this fight, and his overactive mind is just going to have to be quiet for a minute. Draco watches as his fingers reach out, moving steadily closer towards Potter’s face. They twitch, aching to close the last, infinitesimal gap. Potter won’t ever know if Draco does it, has no way of finding out unless Draco tells him. 

The tip of his index finger makes contact with Potter’s cheek. His skin is so warm, just as Draco had imagined. He moans quietly, and drags his finger across the skin. It moves easily, and he dips it down towards Potter’s lips. It hovers there, not quite touching but still _so close_. Draco swallows hard, and gives in. His finger drops towards Potter’s mouth, and Draco sighs as they finally touch. 

Potter’s lips are dry but soft; warm, just like everywhere else. Draco traces his finger down, heat pooling in his stomach as Potter sighs a breath out. The exhaled air rushes against Draco’s hand, and it takes all he has to keep himself composed. As composed as one can be, that is, when leaning over someone to caress their lips. Draco shakes his head, but it does nothing to clear it of the dull ache or the dizziness that is caused by touching Harry Potter. 

Draco wants to replace his fingers with his mouth; wants to slot his own lips against Potter’s. He fights the urge to scowl at himself for coherently thinking that. Maybe he’s still drunk? Ah. That wine he had last night would explain not only their position, but also his head ache… Draco, deciding not to fight himself but to let himself win in some small regard, slides back down under the blankets. He slips his arms around Potter’s chest, tucks his head back into his shoulder. Draco takes a deep breath, breathing in the smell of Potter, and allows himself to drift back into sleep. 

*~*~*~

A shuffling of feet and the whistle of a kettle wakes Draco much later, and he pries his eyes open. Potter’s no longer pressed against him, his bare chest no longer right up with Draco’s. He feels a pang in his chest at the loss, but Potter’s voice calms it down. 

“You awake?”

Draco groans in reply, turning his face into the pillow. It still smells like Harry. 

Harry laughs at him from the kitchen. “There’s a potion for you on the table.”

Draco forces himself to lift his head off the pillow and look around. His vision spins as if on a boat, but he manages to spot a small vial with ‘hngvr ptn’ scrawled on the label. He smiles softly to himself at what can only be his own potion, and knocks it back. It tastes like mint, and it soothes his racing mind as it comes into effect immediately. 

“Thanks,” he says, voice rough. “That helped a lot.”

Harry chuckles again. “I’ve also got coffee ready for you if you get up.”

Draco’s chest tightens and he resists the very strong urge to flop back down again. If Harry’s gone to all the effort to bring him a potion _and_ make him coffee, the least Draco can do is accept them. 

He pulls himself off the sofa, shakes his head and tries to flatten his hair, and makes his way into the kitchen. His feet drag on the floor as he shuffles along, and Harry snorts as he turns to him. Draco ignores his glances and scoops up the mug of coffee, deciding to spare Harry the justified retaliation of using the horrid snowman mug for later. Honestly, who would create something as absurd as these mugs?

Draco takes his first mouthful, and the warm drink wakes him up slowly. He feels his senses return and his brain come back to life as he drinks. 

“Better?” Harry asks, his tone mildly teasing.

Draco just hums in acknowledgment, taking another sip. Harry makes his coffee just the right way, perfectly milky and _very_ strong. If it’s weird that he knows his order so well, Draco doesn’t want to question it. 

As he drains the mug and looks around for breakfast, he notices that not only is Harry much more awake than he is, but he’s also dressed for the day. The navy coat has made a return, and Draco’s surprised to find Harry wearing trousers instead of his usual jeans. 

“Are you going somewhere?” He asks, shifting so his hip is resting against the counter. 

“ _We_ are going out, yes.”

Draco’s breath catches at the stressed ‘we’ and looks back up at Harry’s face. “Where?”

Harry just smiles and slides a plate of bacon and eggs on toast towards him. “Somewhere. Now, eat this quickly and have a shower.”

Draco grins at him in thanks, pours himself another cup of coffee, and instantly tucks into his breakfast. He hears Harry tut to himself and leave the kitchen, no doubt to flop back onto the sofa. 

An hour and a lovely shower later, Draco and Harry are leaving the cottage. The path is totally clear of snow now, and Draco wonders when they might get some again. He’s always loved snow at Christmas, even though it can get really annoying if not taken care of properly. Judging by Harry’s face, he feels the same way. 

“Where are we going?” He asks, eyes skating over Harry’s face. 

“The village.”

Draco tips his head to the side. “Which one?”

“Which do you think?” Harry shoots back, smile tugging at his lips. 

Draco bites back a laugh at the expression. “The one with people in it?”

“Bingo!” Harry says, face lighting up. 

Draco shakes his head to hide his own smile. He doesn’t need Harry learning how soft Draco’s become recently. And when did he start calling him ‘Harry’ anyway? 

“I was thinking we should ask some more questions about the history of the village, see if we can glean any info from that.” 

Draco hums, disguising his thoughts with an almost-interested sound. 

“We could also grab some lunch and look at the light displays, if that’s something you might be interested in?” Harry’s voice shakes a bit, wobbling as if nervous. 

Is the great Harry Potter asking Draco out? Does he mean this as a date? No, probably not. Draco’s probably just overthinking and projecting, which gives him pause. Does he _want_ to go on a date with Harry? He realises the second he thinks that, that _yes_. Yes, he’d be very willing to go out with Harry. He shakes his head. 

“That’s fine, we could run some tests instead?” Harry’s voice cuts through the fog of Draco’s mind, sounding almost… sad.

Draco finally catches up with what’s happening. “Oh!” He exclaims, and curses himself for the stupidity of the word. “No, I’d love to get lunch and look at the lights.” _Love_?! Draco wants to swear at the gods, wants to send them into oblivion for making him trip over his words and sound overly excited. Harry doesn’t seem at all perturbed though, face lighting up and a grin splitting his features. Draco never wants to see it vanish. 

*~*~*~

The village is surprisingly busy for a Monday morning, people of all ages wandering around with bags and shopping carts. Harry’s hand is on Draco’s arm, and the warmth bleeding through is making it a lot harder for Draco to concentrate than he’d like to admit. 

Harry tugs him into the little bakery, and as the bell on the door chimes, Draco is enveloped in the smell of baking bread. He sighs and relaxes, his body losing its tension at the sight of rising dough under warm lights. There’s gingerbread men and tiny Christmas cakes in the display counter, and Draco catches Harry looking at them with something like envy. Why he’d be envious of something not even alive is beyond Draco, but he doesn’t comment. 

“What would you like today, gentlemen?” A teenage boy with purple hair and lots of freckles asks them. 

Harry nods at the gingerbread men. “Four of those, and a loaf of bread please.”

The boy hurries to retrieve the indicated goods, and Draco lifts an eyebrow at Harry. He just smiles in return, and while it makes Draco’s stomach fuzzy with something not entirely horrible, it doesn’t answer his silent question. 

As the cashier slides the gingerbread men into a brown paper bag, Harry clears his throat. 

“I was wondering…” he begins, trailing off and waiting for the boy’s nod. “What do you know about this village’s history?”

The boy’s eyes light up, the dark brown lifting into hazel as if a spotlight has just turned on within them. “Lots! What would you like to know?” He hands over the bag, collects the money, and passes the change over in the blink of an eye. His gaze never leaves Harry’s face, and Draco feels something tighten in his stomach. 

Harry smiles at the boy. “When was it established?”

“1956.”

Harry’s eyes widen at the rapid response, but he gets them under check almost immediately. Draco thanks the gods for their luck at finding a history buff at the very first location. “Who founded it?”

“No one really knows,” the boy says, tucking some of his purple hair behind his ear. “All we’re sure of is that it was a _group_ of people.”

Draco watches as something in his expression flickers, emotions shifting beneath the surface of his face. 

“Really? But you said it was only established… about 50 years ago,” Draco interjects, coming to stand beside Harry. 

The cashier nods. “47, to be exact. But yeah, we have no idea.”

Draco glances at Harry, hoping to find something like disbelief. Harry’s face gives nothing away though, and Draco’s reminded of the meticulous training Aurors have to go through before they can even become Juniors. No doubt that includes hours of facial expression training. 

Harry hums. “Are there any other villages nearby? Or is this the only one?”

The boy frowns, but his face clears soon enough. “I don’t think so. I’m pretty sure this is the only village for ages, but I’m not so good at geography.” He laughs, as if it’s a funny fact and not something that makes Draco want to tear his hair out. 

Harry just nods and thanks the boy, pulling Draco out of the bakery’s warmth and back into the cold. 

“Only 47 years old,” Harry asks incredulously the second they’re out of earshot. “That’s ridiculously recent for a village that looks like this!”

Draco agrees. “How would no one know who founded it either? That’s astonishing, considering they or their children could still be alive.”

Harry grabs Draco’s hand and twines their fingers together, pulling him towards another shop. Draco tries to hide his shiver at the contact. 

“Good morning gents!” A cheery old man calls as they enter the jeweller. “What can I do for you?”

Harry pushes Draco forward. “Draco here is looking for something, a bracelet I believe?” He asks, directing the question at Draco himself. 

He feels his eyes widen at the spotlight suddenly being on him, and forces himself to stay composed. “Yes, indeed.” He turns an almost imperceptible glare to Harry, before facing the man again. “It has a black leather band with, I believe, a silver dragon pendant?”

The man hums, eyes flicking over Draco’s face and then the many counters. “I don’t know if we sell anything like that…” he says after a second in thought. “I can have a look out the back if you’d like?”

Harry nods and thanks the man before Draco can agree himself. 

“Thanks for playing along,” he murmurs, mouth pressed close to Draco’s ear. _Too close._ “I needed him gone for a second.”

Draco takes a step back, needing some distance between them. “What for?”

Harry grins. “To make sure he doesn’t see what I’m about to do.”

For a moment, Draco thinks Harry’s going to touch him. Going to pull him close and kiss him. Of course, that’s not what he does at all. 

Harry steps back and moves to the first cabinet, whipping his wand out. He casts an array of spells over the wood and glass, careful not to get anywhere near the jewellery. His brows draw down, and Draco wonders what he’s doing, unable to figure it out by the colour of the spell. Harry turns to the walls next, repeating the spells and lifting specks of blue and pink steam. 

His frown deepens as he approaches Draco, linking their arms together just as the man comes back. 

“I’m sorry, I couldn’t find the exact bracelet you were after, but there are a couple other options if you’re interested,” the man announces. At Harry’s nod, the man lays out a selection of black leather bracelets, dark fingers flashing with rings and silver of his own. 

Draco leans over the counter a bit to inspect the jewellery, playing his part the best he can with zero preparation. 

“I was wondering,” Harry starts, a repeat of the conversation back at the baker’s.

The man smiles, white teeth making an appearance between dark lips. “About?”

“Is there another village anywhere nearby? It’s just, one of my friends loves little places to visit and has already been here multiple times. He says it’s kind of lost its charm,” Harry says, touching his nose as if revealing a grave secret. 

The man’s eyes widen, and Draco realises he’s probably paying too much attention to the conversation and not enough to the bracelets before him. 

They’re all beautiful. None of them have pendants like the dragon he’d asked for, but some of the braided bands have silver strips threaded into the middle. When he looks at the price on one of them, he’s glad he wasn’t actually asking about them. They are not worth anywhere near the £300 price mark. 

“Thank you so much,” Harry is saying now. “I’ll have to tell him that!”

Draco looks back up to find Harry leaning close to him again and a smile on his face. 

“Have you decided?” He asks Draco, voice patient.

Draco nods. “I really want a dragon,” he tells Harry, who huffs out a laugh. “I’m very sorry for your time,” Draco says to the man. 

He waves a dismissive hand. “Nonsense. It’s been great chatting with you gentlemen.” He scoops the bracelets back up and moves them over to the cupboard they’d come from. 

Harry’s hand once again finds Draco’s, and he’s pulling Draco out into the cold yet again. 

“The first boy was right,” he tells Draco. “That store was no older than 45 years.”

Draco whistles slowly, amazed. “What about any other villages?”

“According to the man just now, apparently there used to be a couple but they all flooded a while back. None of them were very recent, definitely not new enough to be the other we’ve found.”

Humming in acknowledgement, Draco links their hands together. Harry arches an eyebrow at him, but Draco just shrugs. “Pretty sure they all think we’re dating anyway. It’s a good cover story.”

Harry doesn’t say anything to that, but he doesn’t pull his hand free either. Draco considers it a win, but whether that’s a win for his heart or his body, he isn’t sure. 

*~*~*~

The lights are stunning, winding up and down eaves and windows. They glimmer in all the colours of the rainbow, stark and bright against the muted colours of the people in the plaza. 

The little courtyard is alight, and people mill around to take it all in. The water fountain in the middle glows in reds and blues and yellows, lights lining the edge to shift the water into colour. The sight makes Draco gasp, and Harry tightens his grip around his hand. 

Harry leads him towards the fountain, sitting down on the edge and trailing his hand along the surface of the water. Draco wants to scold him for touching the no doubt freezing water, but the smile on Harry’s face is enough to stop him. Instead, he plops down next to Harry, so close their thighs graze together, and tips his head back. The sky above them is baby blue, heavy snow clouds rolling in over the horizon. That doesn’t bode well for any activity tomorrow, although the only thing Draco can think of is the idea of snow right before Christmas. Well, ten days before, but that’s close enough. 

His breath catches as he realises he’s only got ten days left to finish all his paintings and get back to London on time. It’s not going to happen, there’s no way it’s going to happen. There’s not nearly enough time to finish the rose for Blaise, and they are nowhere near finding out how to get back. Draco sighs and forces his breathing to return to normal. They’ll work it out, they always do. This is just like any other case, except it’s all around them this time. If anything, that should make it easier—it isn’t just a paper trail to follow. There has to be something obvious, something _right there_ that just needs to click into place. 

“You okay?” Harry asks, hand on Draco’s shoulder and his face close. 

Draco snaps back to the present, to sitting next to Harry on the edge of a lit up water fountain. He sighs and inhales the cold air. “I’m good now, I think.”

Harry gives a tiny laugh at that and stands up, pulling Draco to his feet. “Come on. Let’s go look at some more lights.”

Draco smiles at the idea of more colourful globes and races after Harry, who’s already halfway across the plaza.

There’s a row of trees on the other side, lining the edge of the pavements and where they join to the grass. Gold lights twine around the trunks and weave into the branches, reminding Draco distantly of Christmas tree fairies. The golden orbs shine through the pale green leaves, bathing the area in a soft yellow light. 

“This will look so much better when it’s darker,” Draco murmurs. 

Harry hums gently, and Draco’s surprised by how close he’s standing. 

As Draco looks around the courtyard, he realises for the first time just _how_ similar this courtyard is to the first they’d found. Sure, they look very alike, and one is probably copied off the other, but Draco is suddenly overwhelmed with a feeling of displacement. 

He tugs at Harry’s hand, warm against his own, and nods to the ground. There’s a tiny crack, etching from the corner of one of the pavers towards the fountain. 

“Just like in the other courtyard…” Harry whispers, catching on. “Come on.”

Harry pulls Draco along with him, breaking into a run as they make their way out of sight and into the forest. He pauses, figuring out which way to go. Once he knows, he begins running again. He doesn’t wait for Draco to catch his breath before, and he feels his face flush as he runs after him 

Draco’s stomach lurches as he picks up his speed, trying to follow Harry’s pace. Harry looks back at him, checking to see if he’s okay, before he’s running again. Draco groans, thinking not for the first time that he’s not as fit as he should be, and jogs on behind him. 

When Harry finally comes to a stop, it’s only because he’s reached the other courtyard and has nowhere else to run. Draco arrives a few seconds later and bends forward, panting heavily. His face is warm and no doubt red, and he can feel the beginnings of sweat trickling down the back of his neck. 

“You’re right,” Harry says, not giving Draco any chance to _breathe_ properly before rambling. “It’s the exact same crack in the exact same place. Do you know what this means?”

Draco stands up, swipes a hand across his forehead. “Of course I do you great oaf.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “I worked a case like this a few months back, you know. There was a tiny cupboard that was—”

“Yes Potter, I’m aware. I worked that case with you,” he says, lfting an eyebrow and turning his best ‘you’re ridiculous’ look Harry’s way.

“Oh, right.” 

Biting back a laugh but not quite managing to stop a small huff, Draco glances back down at the crack. He crouches down, tracing his finger along the hair-width fracture in the pavement. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Harry moving closer to the fountain. He bends at the knees into a squat and looks at something, and Draco stands. Draco makes his way over to Harry, and spots the crack he’d noticed days ago running down the side. 

“The other fountain had that too,” Harry says, voice clear and certain. “It has to be.”

Draco nods. There’s no other possibility. “Someone’s duplicated it.”

*~*~*~

By the time they run their tests and confirm that yes, there is a weird trace of magic over the whole thing, the sun is setting. The Vanishing Cabinet, nearly forgotten in light of the breakthrough, is now pushed away from the fountain again. Harry is crouching by the secret drawer they’d revealed last time, examining it from his haunches. Draco is standing in front of the Cabinet, trying to look for signs of magical exhaustion. 

Sometimes, when something has been tampered too much or too carelessly, there are signs of fatigue and strain visible. Of course, they’re only apparent to people who know what they’re looking for; Draco is not one of those people. He’s seen plenty of _others_ do it though, and it can’t be too hard. Right? He hopes not, although that would explain why he’s yet to see anything. 

“What if, what if someone decided this village was in the wrong spot? So they duplicated it, moved it a bit, transferred the people and then _Obliviated_ them?” Harry asks, his voice strained and tired as he fiddles with the drawer. 

“Why would someone go to all that effort?” Draco asks, eyes protesting as he squints a bit more. “This is no simple feat, Potter.”

Harry’s coat rustles in what Draco can only assume is a shrug. “Maybe they just decided they didn’t like the view.”

“And that’s worth moving an entire village and all its people?” 

“Oh come on Malfoy, now you’re just being a prick.”

Draco snorts, not able to stop the sound escaping. “What. You really think someone would up a whole village? Just like that?” He snaps his fingers, the sound resonating in the silence. 

Harry heaves a sigh. “Guess not. No motive.”

Draco rolls his eyes, not caring that Harry won’t see. “Come on then. It’s time to get going.”

Harry makes a sound like protest, but then his stomach rumbles so loudly Draco can hear it from around the Cabinet. “I guess food wouldn’t be so bad…” 

“We never had lunch. Hurry up, we need to move this back.” Draco’s own stomach gives a gurgle of hunger and he slaps a hand over it. 

“No need to be embarrassed about being hungry, Malfoy,” Harry says as he comes around to Draco’s side. He gestures for Draco to take the left, and together they lift it back into place. Draco resolutely keeps his mouth shut, not wanting to disclose his father’s impact, even all these years later. 

“I’m in the bed tonight,” Harry declares as they’re walking through the dark forest. 

Draco snorts. “You’re mad! It’s my turn.”

“I slept on the couch last night though!”

“So did I,” Draco reminds him with a raised eyebrow. He hopes to Merlin that Harry doesn’t continue this line of conversation, not sure he'd be able to survive the humiliation. 

Thankfully, Harry just sticks his tongue out at him. “I’ll get there first, you’ll see.”

Shaking his head, Draco pushes his pace into a jog. 

“I thought you hated running!” Harry calls after him, easily picking up the pace to run alongside him. 

“Never said that,” Draco says, putting a bit of a pout into his tone. “Just don’t do it often.”

“ _Right_. That’s why you’re already panting and pink?”

Draco flushes even further at the image that comes—totally unbidden, of course—of Harry leaning over him and rocking against him. He shoves the thought away, trying to get his mind back on track. “Blame my ridiculously pale colouring and genetically small lungs.”

“As if you have _small lungs_ Malfoy,” Harry teases, pushing himself harder and overtaking Draco. “Breathplay must be an absolute no then.”

Draco chokes on air, further cementing that comment into truth. “Excuse me?”

Harry just laughs, shaking his head at himself and refusing to elaborate. Draco fights a blush the entire way back to the cottage. 

By the time they are running up the path to the front door, Draco is well and truly exhausted. Sweat is rolling down the back of his neck, dripping from his forehead into his eyes. Draco slams the door open and then tears into the cottage, racing Harry all the way into the bathroom. Harry puts on a bout of speed at the last second and overtakes Draco, pushing into the bathroom and closing the door in his face with a bang.

“If you get the first shower, I get the bed!” Draco calls out. He has no intention of taking the bed from Harry, it _is_ technically his turn, considering he didn’t get to sleep in it last night. It’s not like Draco was complaining when he woke up to Harry’s arms around his waist. He pivots around and stalks to the kitchen, turning the water on in the sink and sticking his head under the spray. The water is cold and it rushes over him, chilling his heated skin. 

He strips his jacket and shirt off, throwing them to the ground in an effort to drop his body heat. His muscles are going to kill him for that run tomorrow. Draco tips his head back under the jet of water, taking a drink at the same time. He turns the tap off and flicks his hair back, spelling it dry so it doesn’t drip all over the floor. Knowing his luck, he’d probably slip in that very water and knock himself out or something, not to mention the damage Harry could do. 

Draco smiles at the thought of Harry being an idiot, before catching himself. It’s stupid to think like this when nothing will ever happen. Sure, maybe Harry leaned in to him a bit today. Yeah, they did wake up together on the sofa, wrapped around each other. And okay, maybe they are getting quite close and talking about topics previously considered dangerous. But none of those things are dead giveaways, none are obvious signs. Draco can’t afford to project his feelings onto Harry, and then feel mistakenly confident those feelings are returned. Chances are, they aren’t. 

Draco shakes his head. He’d rather slip in the water he just vanished than continue on this line of thought. He hears the shower turn off down the hall and gathers up his clothes. Goosebumps prickle across his skin, and when he touches his arms it’s to find them cold. He sighs. He hates the way his body warms up from the inside out; he feels like he’s burning up but his skin is freezing. Draco groans and straightens back up, slinging his clothes over his shoulder. Shooting a spell to the sofa, Draco straightens the blankets and pillows up, and makes his way into the shower. 


	16. Chapter 16

**  
**  
[A man wearing a black sweater saying “Jingle My Bells” in white and red font, with Christmas bells beneath]

**December 16th 2003 - Tuesday**

The ceiling above Harry is white, he _knows_ it’s white, but all he can see is grey. His vision is awful, things blurring together without his glasses. He suppresses a shiver, struggling to keep still when his body is shaking so much. Harry feels like he’s going to pass out. He’s so bloody cold, and nothing is helping. He’s piled three blankets up, is wearing two jumpers, showered, and even made himself tea! And he’s still shivering through the night. 

Harry’s thoughts flick to Malfoy, and he wonders if he’s just as cold as Harry is. He imagines Malfoy shivering under his blankets, but instead of just being curious, Harry feels a streak of concern shift through him. No one should be this cold, and Harry feels awful for even thinking about it in a humorous way. He shakes his head; he needs to be nicer to Malfoy. To Draco. 

Draco, who Harry is always warm around. Maybe he has a constant warming charm up, so strong it leaks towards Harry. He doesn’t think it matters, the fact remains. Draco warms him up, and right now Harry is slowly freezing to death. 

A strange thought occurs to him now. What if the Vanishing Cabinet… is doing something to make this happen? It’s possible, Harry knows it is. The Cabinet could have traced them with something, a spell to slowly draw them together for warmth. It could be setting them up, moving them gradually closer. Harry wants to laugh at the notion. There's no way in hell that’s the case, this isn’t a damned fairytale. Even so, Harry can’t deny the way they only seem to be comfortable when they’re together. 

Gathering his courage while simultaneously cursing it, Harry pulls himself out of bed. He’s had a lot of stupid ideas in the past, but this one might take the cake. He doesn’t remember ever sliding into bed alongside his enemy before. Even if there is no bed, just a couch, and they’re no longer the rivals they once were. Harry swallows, grits his teeth, and tiptoes out of the bedroom. 

The floor is cold beneath his bare feet, and his breath puffs out in clouds. He is so bloody cold, and that is definitely not normal. Harry makes his way, in the dark, down the hallway and towards the living room. He doesn’t want to wake Draco, because he’ll protest. Harry _knows_ he won’t be happy when he wakes up in the morning, but he doesn’t think there’s another option at this point. Shared body heat is one of the best ways to warm up. 

Draco is curled into a ball on the couch, and as Harry approaches he finds him shaking. There are at least three blankets piled on top of him, and still his skin is covered in goosebumps, the hair on his arms raised. Harry releases a breath he hadn’t been aware he was holding, pulling the blankets down slowly. Bit by bit, more and more of Draco’s shoulder is revealed. Harry feels slightly weird about this, but it’s completely innocent. He isn’t trying to make him feel uncomfortable, just trying to stay alive. 

Once the blankets are peeled back enough, Harry rearranges Draco’s cold body. He pushes him so his back is against the cushions with his head rested on the pillow, and then slides in alongside him. Draco’s skin is freezing, colder than Harry’s own. Harry bites back a sigh as his back presses against Draco’s chest. He can feel Draco’s heartbeat against his own, and he times his breathing to match his. 

Harry takes a deep breath; the air smells like Draco and his expensive shampoo. He breathes in again, calming himself and settling in. Things move, and Harry feels Draco’s hands coming up across his hip. Harry stills, sure he’s going to be pushed away. When the hands continue up to his waist and are followed by arms, his heartbeat spikes rapidly. Draco’s hands are cold when they push Harry’s jumpers up, skin on bare skin. Harry swallows hard. Draco tightens his grip and pulls Harry closer, slotting their bodies together and releasing a sigh. 

Harry stops breathing. He stays stock still, terrified that he’s somehow woken Draco up and this is his cruel idea of payback. But Draco’s breath is warm and steady, puffing against the back of Harry’s neck. No, Draco has shifted them into the position subconsciously, and Harry doesn’t know how to react to that. 

When Draco pulls him even closer and drags his hands up Harry’s chest to linger over his heartbeat, Harry finally understands. He finally knows what compelled him to slip into bed with Draco, and it wasn’t entirely for warmth. 

Harry feels like he’s falling through space in the most pleasant way. It feels like he’s floating next to the sun, or flying through an endless amount of stars. He really does love Draco fucking Malfoy, and nothing can change that. Especially not when they’re pressed together in sleep, and Draco feels like home wrapped around him. 

*~*~*~

Falling. 

Black.

_Thud._

“ _Argh_ , fuck.” Harry’s heart hammers in his chest as he brings a hand up to rub at his head. He’s sitting on the floor, a blanket twisted around him and a very annoyed looking Draco on the couch behind him. “What the hell Malfoy?!”

When he turns to face him, he finds one pale eyebrow delicately arched. “I could ask you the same question.”

Draco’s voice is snooty and jeering, and Harry has to mentally slap himself when he thinks it’s attractive. “I don’t know,” he grumbles. “You were the one who pushed me off the couch!”

Draco scoffs and crosses his arms. Harry doesn’t miss the way his eyes linger on his hair. “What the hell were you _doing_ on the couch?”

“Sleeping?”

Draco’s mouth sets into a firm line, his jaw tense in defiance. “The couch was _mine_ last night, you were in the bed.”

Harry rubs at his head again, certain it will bruise. His vision is kind of blurry now he thinks about it, but he’s also not wearing his glasses so it could be that too. “I was cold,” he says, forcing nonexistent confidence into his tone. 

“I’m sorry, I don’t follow. You were cold… so you thought you could fix that by _climbing into bed with me_?” 

Harry shrugs. “Well, yeah?”

Draco shakes his head, arms crossing tighter around his chest. Harry spots goosebumps creeping up his arms again. “Explain.”

“I was fucking _freezing,_ and nothing was working to warm me up. So I thought, if we shared body heat, I might be a bit warmer.” It’s not wrong, it’s actually pretty accurate, except Harry also has another reason to want to sleep next to him. 

Draco huffs but uncrosses his arms, rearranging what’s left of his blankets. “Well, I’m up now, so let’s just forget about it.”

Harry watches as Draco stands, blankets tight around his chest like a cape or robe, and walks over to the kitchen. He immediately clicks the kettle on and starts gathering things for coffee. Harry wants to laugh at how predictable Draco is, but then he pulls out a second mug alongside his, and Harry is shocked into silence. Sure, they eat together all the time now, but Draco’s never done something like this so casually. Harry feels a smile edging onto his face. 

“What do you want to do today?” Harry asks, approaching the kitchen slowly. 

Draco doesn’t respond right away, gaze far off and focused. Then he snaps back as if slapped. “Sorry, what?”

“What do you want to do today?” Harry repeats. 

“Oh.” Draco chews his lip, thinking. “We should probably go run some tests on the courtyard, figure out how and why it was duplicated.”

Harry hums. “I have a theory on that.”

“A reasonable one, this time?”

Laughing, Harry says, “I think it is.”

Draco just shakes his head, turning away so Harry can’t see his smile. “Let’s hear it then.”

“Ok, so,” Harry begins, “what if someone discovered a flaw in the ground? Maybe it’s on a fault line or something, and small earthquakes became a problem. That would explain the cracking foundations.”

Draco hums in thought. “It's plausible, I’ll give you that, but I’m not sure how likely it is. I mean, I haven’t felt anything and we’ve been here for just over two weeks now.”

Harry blows out a breath, his hair flying up and drifting back down again. “Yeah, that’s a good point.”

“It gives us a starting point though,” Draco says, attempting to soften his earlier blow. 

Harry smiles at the thought, no matter how far-fetched Draco caring about him is. 

“Come on, let’s get some coffee.” Draco doesn’t wait for a response, immediately pouring the boiling water into the two mugs and stirring their coffee. When he adds the milk, he swirls it so a spiral forms in the foam. Harry smiles in thanks and amusement as Draco passes him his, even though he rarely drinks coffee; he think he’ll make an exception. 

“Where’d you learn to do that?”

Draco hums, shrugs, and takes a mouthful. “When you’re as addicted to coffee as I am, you learn how to make it pretty.”

Harry laughs at that, and the smile on Draco’s face makes his heart swoop. 

*~*~*~

It’s bitterly cold outside, a gentle breeze carrying snow and ice. Harry is rugged up in his coat, hands shoved deep inside his pockets. Beneath the navy coat he _knows_ Draco approves of, he’s wearing something Draco definitely does not. First, there’s a plain white singlet, and then a purple sweater. Purple looks quite good on him, he thinks, but he isn’t sure he’ll ever wear it after this whole experience. But that’s not the bad part. No, his _second_ sweater is the problem. 

It’s black, rimmed in red wool. It’s very soft, and extremely warm. There’s also pictures and words on the front though. ‘Jingle My Bells’ and an embroidered pair of bells, to be exact. Draco would take his head off if he saw it. The sweater is, of course, another present. Not from Ron this time, but Seamus and Dean. They’d given it to him after he came out, thinking it was absolutely hilarious. Harry hated it at the time, but it’s grown on him now. It’s especially good for hiding under other clothes, or pissing off a particular blond man. 

Despite Harry looking like a mess in the snow, wrapped in a thousand layers of ugly sweaters, Draco looks like he was born in the cold. 

His hair is dusted with snowflakes, the white snow crystals shining on top of his pale blond head. He looks like an angel, poised and graceful and gorgeous. If Harry wasn’t already in love with the man, he would fall for him right now. Draco is so pretty, eyes sparkling as the sun peeks out above the trees. 

“What are you staring at?” Draco mumbles, as if knowing the answer already and slightly embarrassed by it. 

Harry shakes his head. He can’t say it, there’s no point. “The snowflakes. They’re beautiful, aren’t they?”

Draco smiles softly, a tiny lift of his lips. “They are.”

They continue on in a comfortable silence, footsteps the only noise they make. As they reach the forest, Harry can start hearing birds calling to each other, insects buzzing and chirping. The sounds help him remain calm, help ground him. Things _live_ here, they live in the forest. It’s a perfectly safe place for a wizard to be. 

He focuses on his breathing, making sure it’s deep and even. If Draco notices anything off, he doesn’t mention it. Harry is infinitely grateful for his presence, for him walking along next to Harry, perfectly calm. If Draco can feel at ease in the forest he nearly died in, so can Harry. 

“What did you say we were doing again?” He asks, needing to fill the void between him and Draco, the quiet suddenly becoming too much. 

Draco huffs a breath, but the grin that pulls at his features gives away his humour. “We need to run more tests, need to figure out why the courtyard could have been duplicated. Nothing seems to make sense so far.”

Harry nods. “How many more tests could we possibly try though? I feel like all we’ve done is run diagnostics.”

Draco chuckles. “There are hundreds of things we could try. We’ve barely scratched the surface.”

Groaning, Harry pulls his hands from his pockets and cracks them. They’re really cold, his skin like ice, but he doesn’t feel cold anymore. If anything, he’s at a perfect temperature. It’s weird, but the whole situation is weird, so he doesn’t think anything of it. 

“Race you,” Draco says out of nowhere. When Harry turns to look at him, Draco’s silver eyes are alight in challenge. 

“Are you not sore from yesterday?” 

Draco tips his head to the side and shrugs one shoulder. “Guess not.”

Harry rolls his eyes, reading between the lines. “You took potions, didn’t you?”

“And rubbed salves in, yeah.”

Harry snorts. “You up for one?”

“Potter, I was born ready to race you.”

“Maybe, but you’re nowhere near as fit as I am.”

Draco’s jaw drops open and he glares at Harry fiercely. “How dare you! I’ll prove you wrong.” 

Harry shakes his head at his stubbornness—although, Draco would call it being determined, the bloody Slytherin—but stretches out his muscles anyway. “You’re on, Malfoy.”

Draco swallows, loud in the stillness. “Come on Potter. I’ll count down.” He shifts into a starting position—not a _good_ one though—and flips his hair out of his eyes. 

“Three.”

Harry pulls his foot to his bum, stretching his hamstring. 

“Two.”

He repeats the motion on the other side. Puts his foot down. 

“One.”

Harry leaps into a run, pushing hard but not _too_ hard. It’s more important to maintain the pace than start off at a sprint, especially when versing someone like Draco. 

Draco, who has taken off fast and furious. His feet fly over the snow and underbrush, dodging roots and bushes. Harry knows Draco will burn out soon, that his lungs won’t be able to cope and he’ll have to stop. Harry also knows, though, that _he_ will pull out in front; he’s been running for years as part of his Auror training and fitness maintenance. He may not be a Muggle Olympian, but he can definitely hold his place. 

“Fuck,” Draco curses under his breath. He slows down, hands clutching at his side and stomach. 

Harry takes the moment to pick up the pace a bit, to put on a bit of speed. He runs towards Draco, feet knowing instinctively where to land. Draco turns and sees him approaching, instantly beginning to run again. Harry has to admire his perseverance, even if he looks like he’s about to collapse. 

“See you there Malfoy!” He can’t help calling out as he passes the man. He doesn’t turn his head to watch the fury spread across Draco’s face, but he knows it’s there. 

“You wish Potter!” 

A stone flies at Harry, landing at his feet and thudding into the snow. Harry shouts something unintelligible at Draco, but there’s no response. He listens carefully, trying to pinpoint where Draco is behind him. There’s nothing, no sound to give away another person’s presence. He slows to a stop, turning his body fully to search for him. 

“Malfoy?”

There’s no response, and Harry feels dread claw its way into his heart. Draco has to be somewhere. Even if it’s the worst case scenario and someone has grabbed him, it’s impossible to Apparate here. With that thought firmly in his mind, Harry casts a couple location tracking charms and human-life detectors. The first ones show a map with different non-human organisms and their paths laid out in overlapping colours. None of them are very close to Harry, no trails leading away from him. Draco hasn’t been taken by an animal, or worse, an Animagus. 

The second map doesn’t show paths and trails, only pinpoints people’s location. Harry’s own point on the map is blue, standing out stark against the red magic creating a three dimensional map in the air. He scans it, eyes quickly falling to a purple point a little ways off. Harry feels relief drain into his body as he realises Draco must be alone. His eyes follow the point as it moves, travelling steadily towards the courtyard. The bastard has found a faster route, and is hoping he’ll make it there before Harry. 

Harry sighs, feeling the tension leave his body. He cancels the spells and begins running again, slowly speeding up until he’s practically sprinting. Stamina be damned, he needs to beat Draco there. He can’t believe Draco did that.

The ground flies under him, the scenery blurring together. Harry doesn’t notice the individual trees or plants, just the movement needed to avoid running into them. Eventually though, the ground hardens. The snow becomes more compact, the gap between trees widening. He’s approaching the end of the forest, and with it, Draco.

The trees end, the sun streaming through the clouds and reflecting off the snow. Harry covers his eyes, protecting them from the glare. He hadn’t registered it snowing overnight, but it obviously must have. Draco _had_ said something about clouds forming, but Harry was too tired and determined to get to the shower first that he hadn’t really noticed. Clearly, Draco was correct.

Harry swallows, his throat sore from his heavy breathing, and looks around. The courtyard is off to the right and up a small slope, but there’s no sign of anyone else. Harry must have been _really_ sprinting. He sighs, takes a deep breath, and breaks out into a steady jog. His muscles aren’t going to be happy with the lack of an actual warm up, but he doesn’t care right now. He makes his way over to the courtyard, and when he’s half way there he hears a shout of indignation. Draco has broke out of the forest. 

Harry smiles to himself but doesn’t stop running. He’s come so far, he’s not going to turn to look at Draco, no matter how beautiful he’ll look in the bright sun. 

“Potter!”

Harry ignores the shout, knowing Draco is just trying to distract him. It didn’t sound like he was in trouble anyway, just annoyed that he’s losing. Classic, dramatic Draco. 

He races to the courtyard, skidding to a stop once he taps the water fountain as if reaching the finishing line. 

“I hate you!” Draco says with a huff as he catches up. He bends forward, hands on his knees, and catches his breath. 

“Such a gracious loser, Malfoy.”

“You cheated!”

Harry lifts an eyebrow. “ _I_ cheated? You’re the one who changed route.”

Draco huffs again and stands up straight, perfectly composed despite his flushed face. “And you know that _how_?”

Harry blushes, warmth rising to his cheeks. He hopes it can’t be seen through his dark skin, unlike Draco’s porcelain colouring that shows every emotion if one knows to look. “Well, you weren’t with me anymore. It was the only logical option.”

“You weren’t at all worried?” 

Harry pauses, something in Draco’s question irking him. “Why would I be worried?” He asks hesitantly. 

Draco shrugs. “You hate forests, right? I also happened to spend a few days trapped in there if I remember correctly.”

Harry pales, the world suddenly spinning. He swallows hard and looks away, not able to watch the smile drop off Draco’s face as he realises he’s overstepped. 

“I’m so sorry Potter,” he says, “that was unnecessary and insensitive.” 

Draco walks slowly towards Harry, his shoes tapping on the pavement. His hand lands on Harry’s shoulder, and he tries not to tense at the unexpected touch. It slides from his shoulder down his back, resting just above his waist. 

“I’m really sorry, Harry.”

Harry sucks in a shaky breath at the use of his given name. He can count the number of times Draco’s said it to him on one hand, and it makes him feel safe. Cared for. 

Harry swallows again and nods, blinking rapidly. He squeezes his eyes shut; opens them again. 

“It’s okay. Thank you though.”

The hand moves, rubbing circles into his skin through his massive coat. “It’s not okay. I overstepped and I made you feel bad.”

Harry takes a deep breath, feeling his body relax again under Draco’s hand. 

They stand in silence for a moment, and Harry slowly comes back to himself. “Thanks,” he says, trying to keep his voice steady. 

Draco doesn’t say anything, just pulls his hand away and steps back. Harry aches at the loss of his touch but forces himself to stand up straight and be brave. He’s a Gryffindor, not a bloody Hufflepuff. 

“I can hear you thinking, Potter,” Draco says as he comes around to face him. 

Harry snarls, lips pulling into a scowl. 

“And there’s nothing wrong with being a Hufflepuff.”

Harry’s expression smooths out, carefully blank. “I never said there was.”

“As I said, I can hear you thinking. 

“Are you a Legilimens or something?” Harry asks, more curious than annoyed. 

Draco shakes his head. “No, I’ve just clearly spent too much time with you.”

Harry sighs. “Sorry. Of course there’s nothing wrong with being in Hufflepuff.”

Draco just nods at him, eyes incredibly soft and open. Then they sharpen, his face coming back to poised and alert. “You won. What do you want as a prize?”

“I get a prize?” Harry asks, mood picking up at the change of topic.

“I thought that would get your attention,” Draco laughs. “Yes. And it’s totally up to you. _What do you want_?” 

Harry must be imagining it, but Draco’s voice drops at the end. It sends a curl of fire racing through his body. He pushes it away; there’s no way it was even there, and if it was, it wasn’t intentional. 

“Hmmm,” Harry says, even though he already knows what he wants. “Maybe one of your marvellous hot chocolates?”

“Oh?” Draco says, eyebrows rising in surprise. “That’s _all_?”

Harry nods. 

“How do you even know my hot cocoa is any good?”

“Please,” Harry says, rolling his eyes. “That first night, we had an unspoken competition, remember? You won by a mile, you prat.”

Draco looks like he _preens_ at that. “I did, didn’t I?”

Harry shakes his head, reluctantly amused. “So? Do I get the hot chocolate or not?”

“Yes, you stubborn bastard. I’ll make you a hot chocolate.”

“With marshmallows?” 

Draco laughs, loud and melodic. “Of course. If you’re lucky, I’ll put it in the upside down Santa mug.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” Harry growls, eyes shining in jest. 

“You bet your sweet arse I would,” Draco shoots back. 

Harry tries not to think too hard about that sentence, laughing it off and turning to face the courtyard at large. 

“Okay. What do we start with?” He asks, gesturing around to the water fountain and Cabinet. 

“I’m not sure,” Draco admits, looking around. His eyes sharpen, searching out for something unusual. Harry knows he’s found it when he moves, walking to the very edge of the courtyard and onto the grass. “Well, come on!”

Harry sighs but follows along, helpless to do anything but as Draco says. 

“I’m thinking I could possibly cast a Replica Recognition spell first, what do you think?”

“I think it has a stupid name,” Harry jokes. 

Draco hums. “It does, but it works really well for seeing something’s magical core and where it’s been altered.”

“Does duplication count as an alteration?”

Draco nods. “I’m not sure why, as technically it should be exactly the same—especially on this end—but it does show up.”

Harry whistles. “Well, I’m not going to argue with that.”

Draco pulls his wand out of his pocket, raising it straight up at the sky. He murmurs an incantation and a stream of silver flows out the end. It’s the colour of a Patronus charm, and for a second Harry thinks that that’s what it is. But then it darkens, becoming a deep grey, and fires off. It travels around the perimeter of the plaza, following the pavers and looping around the corners. It’s precise, and it rockets back into Draco’s wand barely two seconds later. Draco, to his credit, doesn’t sway at all. 

After another second, the grey magic sweeps over the courtyard. It spikes up in places, curves gently over others. Harry knows without a word from Draco, that the courtyard’s magic is on clear display right now. 

“What does it mean?” He asks, unsure how to read the information despite knowing what it is. 

“The higher the spike the more intense the magic. The angle of the rise, like a point versus a curve, shows how often it’s been tapped. A high curve, for example, is strong magic that has been used quite a lot. Not necessarily tampered with, but definitely interacted with.” Draco points to the highest curve, the slope soft but extremely tall. It towers over Draco as he moves towards it. 

“The Vanishing Cabinet,” Harry murmurs. 

Draco nods, cancelling the spell and looking around. “No surprise it’s strong magic, but the prolonged human contact is strange.”

Harry thinks back to what they already know about the Cabinet. “We decided it was made by magic, not a person right? Could that impact it?” 

Draco nods yet again. “Yeah, but it doesn’t look that old. A peak this high with such a gentle rise is extremely rare, and can only be created from months of daily exposure. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Harry pauses. Something is off. “This was brought into work, remember?”

“Yes,” Draco says, glancing back at Harry. “I was called in on my day off.”

“Your fault for having _Monday_ off,” Harry fires back. “Besides, it’s not like _I_ was the one to call you in.”

Draco shrugs, acquiescing the fact. “Your point?”

“How old do you think it is? I wouldn’t have said too much.”

“Probably… a year? The wood is still high quality, the corners and edges sharp. The magic is also potent, not worn thin with age.”

“Teleporting two people kilometres and kilometres would take a lot of magic, wouldn’t it?” Harry asks. 

“Lots. If it were much older than a year, it would be in shreds by now.”

Harry nods, taking a notebook out and jotting notes down with his wand. “Let’s test the courtyard’s core.”

Draco’s brows furrow, drawing into his face. “We just did? That’s what the peaks were.”

Harry shakes his head. “I want to see its _core_. Its energy, if you will. Something doesn’t seem right.”

Giving in, Draco nods. “You’re not wrong. Okay, give me a second.”

Harry stands back, waiting for whatever Draco will do. He pulls his wand out again, this time waving it in a slow circle and then in a horizontal arc. Yellow sparks spit out of his wand, and then one catches into fire. Harry panics, ready to strike, but Draco holds up a hand. Swallowing, Harry watches as the other sparks light up and then scatter. Yellow fire spreads over the courtyard, bathing it in a strange light. 

The fire dissipates after a tense few seconds, leaving behind ash in varying colours of blue. Wind blows said ash away, and Harry wants to scream. Once again though, Draco holds up a commanding hand. What’s left of the ash rises back into the air, floating a foot above the ground. And then the edges curve, rising further at the edges until it forms the shape of a bowl. 

“Fascinating…” Draco murmurs, dropping his wand and lifting his hand to trace the ash. 

“It’s… kind of bent? Or is it meant to be like that?” Harry asks, his knowledge of anything remotely Unspeakable-ish tiny. 

“It’s meant to be flat,” Draco mumbles, eyes glistening. At first Harry thinks he’s crying, but then he grins. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“What if, hear me out, what if this courtyard is fake?”

Draco’s head snaps to his. “Who on earth would make a _fake_ courtyard? Besides, what does that even mean? It’s clearly real.”

Harry knew Draco would do this. “What if we’re the only ones who can see it? What if this one is the copied version, and the other is the real one?”

Draco freezes. Harry watches him, watches his brain whirring through his eyes. His gaze is calculating, lost in his mind as the pieces fall together. Harry wishes he could hear what he’s thinking. 

“You’re right, Potter. This is the duplicate, the other one is the first.”


	17. Chapter 17

****

[Glass reindeer decoration with massive antlers]

**December 17th 2003 - Wednesday**

It’s early when Draco wakes up, blankets wrapped around him in a twisted mess. He groans and frees himself, burning his skin with the friction. Shaking his head, Draco rearranges the bed and flops back under the covers. He pulls them up to his chin, snuggling in and burying his face in the pillow. It smells like Harry. 

After taking a moment to fully wake up and get his mind working—at least, as well as it can without coffee—Draco realises it’s still dark. There’s no light coming in from the window, no birds calling. Frowning, he pulls his wand out from under the pillow and casts a _Tempus._ It’s only 5:38 am. 

“Ugh!” Draco grunts, throwing his wand across the room and ducking under the covers. 

Barely ten seconds later though, his skin breaks into goosebumps. It’s so cold and Draco shivers as his skin drains of warmth. He’s beyond sick of this, he just wants to be warm! Cursing the gods before remembering his promise to himself, he pulls himself out of bed. If swearing at non-existent divine beings is out of the question, he needs to take the problem into his own hands. 

Draco sits on the edge of the bed, blankets draped over his shoulders and tucked under his legs. His cocoon is warm, but it doesn’t stop the cold seeping into his bones. He sighs, breath puffing out in a cloud. Definitely not normal. Draco thinks for a moment, trying to figure out how to warm himself up. If he was in his flat, he’d have a bath. He’d drink a mug of coffee and then tea, and rug up in a blanket. If those things didn’t work, he’d wank. 

Wanking is, of course, out of the question. After the _incident_ last week, Draco doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to again. Trust Harry fucking Potter to walk in on him. Draco shakes his head. He can’t think about those things together, can’t trust himself. 

He could always draw himself a bath… Have a nice, hot shower. Somehow though, Draco doesn’t think that will work. The only thing that’s been able to warm him up recently is close proximity to Harry. Something dangerous, but exactly what Draco wants. He imagines walking into the living room and just… laying down next to Harry. Tucking himself against Harry’s chest, looping Harry’s arms over himself and settling in. There’s no reason he can’t, right? 

Except for the part of Draco that knows it’s wrong. That he shouldn’t do it; that he’s taking advantage of a sleeping man. But then he thinks of Harry wrapped around him yesterday. Of the way their legs were tangled, the way their chests were pressed against each other, before Draco had literally pushed Harry off the sofa. Maybe it’s not as unrequited as Draco had thought… 

With one half of himself screaming that it’s a horrible idea, and the other telling him to grab the opportunity with both hands, Draco manages to stand up. His legs shake from the cold, his fingers tingling slightly. He’s _too_ cold. Draco pulls the blankets tighter, wrapping himself in them further, and takes a step. He is so tired. All he wants to do is flop into bed, go to sleep in the sun. He can’t. Draco physically shakes himself. His brain is shutting down with the cold, but his mind is still capable. He can beat the instinctive need to hibernate like an animal. 

Draco takes another step, forcing his body to cooperate. He wobbles precariously, throwing an arm out to catch himself should he fall. Thankfully, he manages to stay upright. He grunts in frustration at his numb limbs and pushes harder. He _is_ going to make it to Harry, and he _is not_ going to fall in the process. This time. 

The living room seems an eternity away as he staggers down the corridor. The floor is freezing on his bare feet and his toes begin to go numb as well. He grits his teeth, urging his brain to listen to him. Harry equals heat. Sleep equals death. Over and over he thinks this, but his body doesn’t want to work with him. Draco pinches his thighs through his pyjamas, trying to get some feeling into them. They’re so cold, his skin like ice even through the fabric. He keeps walking though, determined—or as Harry would call it, stubborn—to make it before he passes out. 

The room is dim, night still ruling over this part of the world. The windows give nothing away, clouds obscuring the sky. Draco knows the sun won’t rise for another two or three hours, but he is desperate to see it. The sun equals warmth. He snarls at himself, growling at the way his mind is slowly warping too. He doesn’t need to become a prehistoric version of himself, with the only priority survival. No, he can do this. 

Draco makes his way, excruciatingly slowly, towards the sofa. He fixes his eyes on the blanket-covered lump sleeping there, knowing it’s Harry. The call of warmth and comfort is strong and it revives Draco’s brain just slightly. He finally makes it to the sofa, and reaches an arm out to shove Harry back further. Harry’s back hits the sofa cushion and he groans in his sleep, complaining at being pushed. Draco ignores it, lifting the blankets off Harry a bit so he can slide in as well. His own blankets fall off his shoulders and become a crumpled pile on the ground, but it’s okay. 

Harry lies motionless behind him. Draco sighs and wriggles around, trying to encourage movement. He’s already much warmer, lying next to Harry and sharing body heat. But it’s not enough, and Harry isn’t getting the message. Draco needs him to actually hold him, to wrap him up. 

He wants to ask, wants to wake Harry up and demand it. He can’t though, can he? It’s kind of a weird thing to do, climbing into someone else’s bed—or, as the situation would call for, _sofa_ —and forcing them to cuddle him. It would also give away how he feels, painting a big red ‘x’ above his heart. Then again, if Harry hasn’t already figured it out, he’s an oblivious prick. Draco isn’t exactly hiding his attraction, not anymore. 

“Hey, Potter,” he murmurs, pushing at Harry’s shoulder. It hurts, having to call him by his surname still. All he wants to do is shout ‘Harry!’ from the rooftop and fuck anyone who cares, but he can’t. Not yet. “Wake up.”

Harry grunts something unintelligible at him, not moving or waking up in the slightest. 

Draco sighs, but it’s exactly what he expected. Harry is _not_ a morning person. 

“Come on, Potter, wake up.” Another shove, this one a bit rougher and more determined. 

Harry sputters as he wakes, hands tightening around where Draco’s are on him. “Malfoy? What’s happening?” 

Draco watches as Harry blinks his eyes open, swallows a few times. His voice is rough from sleep, dry. Draco feels kind of bad for waking him up, but needs must and what-not. “Nothing Potter, calm down.”

Harry takes a deep breath, his chest pressing into Draco’s back further. “Why are you here?” He asks, suspicion rising in his tone. “And why did you wake me up?”

Draco blushes, hoping the dark covers it. His skin is _so_ pale, he can never hide it. “I was cold, and thought body heat might work more than the blankets.”

Harry grunts. “Right. And you woke me because…?”

Draco sighs, knowing he’s going to have to rip the bandaid off. “I wanted you to hold me, and you weren’t cooperating.”

Harry’s breath catches. “And you wanted me to hold you… why?”

“You’re asking a lot of questions!” Draco snaps before he can think better of it. 

Harry sinks away a bit, but seems to get over it. “Sorry. It’s just not every day when someone gets into bed with me and demands to be cuddled.”

“I’m sorry too,” Draco says on a sigh. “I didn’t mean to snap.”

Harry nods. “You’re freezing.”

Draco scoffs. “It was a lot worse a few minutes ago.”

Harry doesn’t say anything to that, but after a second Draco feels hands coming up along his waist and back. They rub up and down his skin, kneading away the cold and the tension in Draco’s muscles. He lets out a soft sigh, flinching as he realises what it sounds like. 

Harry doesn’t stop though, moving a hand up to Draco’s neck and pushing, turning his head away so they’re pressed against each other properly and Draco’s spine is aligned. He’s always going on about the proper way to sit or lie down, and the way Draco’s back was twisted so he could look at Harry can’t have been healthy. 

“Is this better?” He asks, voice soft and hands firm as they slide back down. 

Draco’s eyelids droop, a breathy moan escaping his mouth. Harry freezes and Draco curses his own lack of self control. He moves a hand up to Harry’s, covering it with his own. He rubs circles over the skin, encouraging movement. At the same time though, he can also feel Harry’s pulse in his wrist. It’s fast, hammering under his touch. Harry’s affected by this, and Draco doesn’t know how to react. 

He wants to kiss him. He wants to turn back around and cover Harry’s gorgeous lips with his own. Draco can imagine Harry’s pulse speeding up, fluttering in his neck. Can picture the way Harry’s hands would slide into his hair and pull him closer. 

He pushes the thoughts away. Harry wouldn’t let him kiss him, even if there is some small amount of mutual attraction. Draco needs to get over this, needs to control his behaviour and responses. 

“Much better,” he murmurs, a beat too late but not caring. 

He feels Harry smile against the back of his neck. “Good. Now go back to sleep for a few more hours.”

Draco’s helpless but to do as he’s told, his body finally relaxing against Harry’s chest and touch. 

*~*~*~

Bright. White light. 

Draco groans, hands flying up to cover his eyes. 

“It’s so _bright_ ,” he grumbles. His throat is dry and his mouth tastes like bile. He shudders and swallows, reaching for his wand. Draco slips a hand under the pillow, patting around for it. 

“That’s because you’re in the living room, Malfoy.” 

Draco’s head snaps up, eyes meeting Harry’s. The world spins around him, and he falls back down. 

“Your wand isn’t here, if that’s what you’re looking for,” he says, sounding more amused than anything. 

Images flash behind his eyelids, and Draco suddenly remembers what must have been a few hours ago. He leaps up, racing to the bedroom. He grabs his wand off the floor where he’d thrown it and immediately casts cleaning charms over himself. Draco spells his mouth to taste like mint once it’s clean, and uses a deodorant charm instead of digging around for his own. Then he stands up, straightens his clothes, and makes his way to the bathroom. 

Draco scowls at his reflection. His hair is sticking up in odd places, his pyjamas wrinkled and half off his shoulders. There are lines pressed into his face from how he was lying, and the skin under his eyes is slightly purple. He sighs and sets to work fixing his appearance. He then uses the toilet, and rushes back out into the living room. Harry is perched on the edge of the sofa like a commoner, watching with amusement etched clearly on his perfectly-composed face. 

“Panic attack over?” He asks, raising an eyebrow in a way that perfectly mimics Draco’s. 

“First of all, don’t laugh about panic attacks. Second, yes. I think so.”

Harry shakes his head but laughs, moving off the sofa into the kitchen. “Noted. Want breakfast?”

Draco takes a breath. He needs to calm down, needs to _slow_ down. If Harry isn’t going to talk about this morning, he won’t either. “What is there?” He asks instead. 

“Actually,” Harry says, turning around to face him, “I was thinking we could go get something from one of the cafes? We never got lunch the other day so…”

A smile tugs at Draco’s lips, a blush threatening his face. He decides to allow them their place today. “Sure, that sounds nice, actually.”

Harry sags in relief where he’s standing. “Good. That’s, that’s good.” He pauses for a second, lingering in the kitchen. “Oh! I made you coffee too, to drink on the way.” Harry grabs a travel mug from the counter and passes it to Draco. His skin is tinged slightly red, and Draco’s smile broadens at the idea of Harry Potter being flustered. 

“Thanks,” he replies, immediately taking a sip. It’s perfect, as usual. 

“Well, I know how you get without coffee, so…”

Draco grins, his face feeling like it’s going to split open. “Thank you.”

Harry waves a dismissive hand and grabs his navy blue coat off the back of a chair. “Come on, let’s go.”

“I’m not dressed!” Draco says.

“Well then, you’d better hurry,” Harry replies, smirking. 

Draco scowls at him but puts the coffee down and races to get changed into actual clothes. He comes back a minute later in black trousers which hug his thighs, and a pale blue sweater. Harry’s eyes rake over him, and Draco feels his heart stutter. Even if Harry isn’t going to make a move anytime soon, Draco is certain something will happen eventually. 

He scoops his coffee into his hands, shrugs on a coat of his own, and holds the front door open for Harry to go through first. 

“M’lady,” he says, unable to help himself. 

Harry chuckles and shoves him, but waits for Draco to exit before walking down the path anyway.

“Do you have somewhere in mind?” Draco asks after a moment of silence. The snow from Monday has all but melted away, and all that’s left is a few puddles of water. 

“There’s a coffee shop near the bookstore right? Breakfast and then books?”

Draco’s heart swells at the thought, and he wants to Apparate them there right now to save time. Shame he can’t. “That sounds perfect.”

Harry hums, and they walk in comfortable silence. 

*~*~*~

“Good morning gentlemen! You’re up bright and early today. What can I get you?” 

Their server is a middle aged woman with greying blond hair, tucked into a bun. She looks at them expectantly, notepad and pen ready to take down their order. 

“I’ll have a Full Breakfast, I think,” Harry says, eyes on his menu. “And a glass of orange juice, please.”

The waitress nods. “And for you?” She asks, turning to Draco. 

“A ham and cheese croissant please. Warm.”

She nods again, pen moving quickly across yellow pages. Draco’s mind flashes back to the day he left, when he wrote a note for Harry on similar paper. He swallows, forcing himself to look away. 

“Something to drink?” She asks, voice cheery. 

Draco looks back at his menu, eyes scanning over the options. “Just some water, I think.” His coffee is still half-full afterall, and it would be a shame to waste it. 

“Is that all, gentlemen?”

“Yes, thank you,” Harry says, folding up his menu and then reaching across for Draco’s. Draco let’s him take it, and watches as he passes them to the waitress. 

“It’ll be out soon,” she says in response before ducking back inside. 

“You okay?” Harry asks as soon as she’s out of ear shot.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Draco shoots back, voice cold. 

“Come on Malfoy. I’ve known you for years, I can tell when something’s wrong.”

Draco sighs, knowing he might as well get it out of the way; Harry will wrangle it out eventually. “Her notepad reminded me of something, that’s all.”

“Of what?” Harry asks, voice gentle.

Draco doesn’t answer, attention turning towards his coffee. It’s warm and rich, creamy and absolutely _perfect_. He doesn’t know how Harry does it. 

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” Harry says, voice still soft. “I just thought it might help lift some weight off your chest.”

Draco sighs, pushing the cup away so he can’t use it to ignore Harry. “The day I fell into the hole? I left you a note on some weird, yellow, square paper. It’s just… really similar to what our waitress just used. That’s all.”

Harry shakes his head, his hands moving across the table to grab Draco’s. He flinches, but Harry’s hands are warm and his touch is reassuring. “It’s okay to feel like that, Malfoy. They’re called ‘Post-It Notes’ by the way, the paper you used. The waitress’ is slightly different and I’m not sure of it’s name.”

“Why are you telling me?”

Harry shrugs. “Hermione always said that the best way to get through what happened is to learn about it. If that paper triggers something, I don’t know, maybe me telling you about it might help.” 

Draco smiles. It’s thoughtful, even if he doesn’t quite believe it. 

“Here’s your orange juice, sir. Your food will be out soon.” The waitress places a tall glass in front of Harry, her hair wobbling on top of her head. 

“Thank you,” Harry says, already lifting it to take a drink. 

“You know,” Draco says after the waitress has left, “most people drink tea or coffee with a full breakfast, not juice.”

Harry’s lips twitch into an expression of nonchalance. “I prefer pumpkin juice, naturally, but this makes do with the Muggles.”

“My point still stands.”

He sighs. “I don’t actually drink tea or coffee that often. Something I’m sure you’ve noticed over the years.”

Draco nods, taking a drink of his own coffee as if compelled by the conversation. “I have. Why?”

“It makes my mind too fast. It’s too hard to concentrate on the important information when it’s trying to take everything else in too.”

“Makes sense. What about tea?”

Harry just shrugs, smile pulling at his lips. “I don’t like it that much.”

“At all?!”

“I’ll have a peppermint or chamomile tea occasionally, and I’ll have others if the mood strikes, but usually? Nah, I avoid it.”

“I’m sure you’ve had tea these past few weeks with me,” Draco says, trying to remember what’s actually happened. 

“Quite likely,” Harry admits, drinking his juice. “But probably only once or twice. As I said, it’s not my favourite.”

Draco hums. He looks around the village, a slight wind blowing trees gently and floating leaves along the ground. “It’s beautiful here.”

“It is.” Harry’s hand pulls away from Draco’s, who had totally forgotten they were touching. Harry’s eyes shine with words unsaid, and Draco itches to know what they are. 

“Here is your food, gentlemen. Enjoy.” The waitress puts their plates on the table and takes her leave, bowing out of the way as if attending kings. 

“That was really fast,” Harry exclaims, looking at his overflowing plate with excitement clear in his eyes. They’re so green…

Draco hums, tearing his gaze from Harry’s face. “They probably have some time modifying spells in their kitchen.”

“So, what? The kitchen is… sped up? While the rest of the cafe is at normal time?”

“Possibly,” Draco says, pulling his own plate towards him. His croissant looks delicious; flaky, golden pastry and warm ham with melted cheese. Not exactly high end, but really good on a cold day. 

He looks back up to find Harry’s eyes on him. Draco smirks, raising his croissant to take a bite. Harry looks away as Draco swallows, and Draco knows this is going to be a very entertaining breakfast. 

*~*~*~

The courtyard is extremely crowded for a Wednesday morning, and Draco is starting to think that this village doesn’t operate on standard schedules. That being said, there aren’t many children, and no schools in sight. Maybe they’re sent somewhere else? He supposes that must be the case; that, or Muggles are weirder than he ever thought possible. 

“Do you want to try the same spells as yesterday?” Harry asks as they push past the crowds. 

“I don’t see how we’re going to with this lot here,” Draco says, sneering as a man brushes against him. 

Harry scowls at the man too, and turns back to Draco. “We’ll just make a distraction.”

“Such as?”

Without answering, Harry runs off to the nearest tree and ducks behind it. Draco can feel his magic spread out over the courtyard, encompassing all the people but making a careful circle around Draco. A very strong Notice-Me-Not is cast, and the Muggles all begin trickling out of the courtyard. Harry comes round the tree again and grins at Draco, waiting for everyone to leave before approaching. 

“That worked well,” he says cheerily. 

Draco frowns at him. “It’s also illegal, in case the _Auror_ forgot.”

Harry shrugs. “They’ll forgive me.”

Draco shakes his head but doesn’t push it—it’s not like any of them were hurt. 

“So. Spells.”

Sighing, Draco nods. “If you insist. Stand behind me.”

“I didn’t have to yesterday!”

Harry is an arrogant prick, and how Draco ever forgot that is beyond him. “I’m not using the same spell as yesterday, so you need to stand behind me.”

“I just said you should!”

Draco shakes his head. “No, you asked a question, to which I didn’t respond.” He wasn’t placed in Slytherin for nothing.

Harry scowls at him but drops it, knowing he isn’t going to win. “What does this one do then?”

Draco smiles, pleased Harry is playing along. “Very similar to yesterday, but after our revelation it needs to be. Since we now _know_ this is the original, the spells will show what charmwork has been used on the courtyard.”

“What, so we’ll have a list of the times someone tampered with the core and what they did to it?”

“Exactly.” Draco runs a hand through his hair, marvelling at how warm he is despite being outside. Harry’s presence is really keeping the cold at bay. 

Draco pulls his wand out of his pocket, his holster nowhere to be found. Miss Stinton will kill him if he goes back without it, but it’s not his fault it’s lost! It’s probably Harry’s, if he’s being honest. The man can’t keep anything in order unless he’s being paid to. 

Draco turns his wand in a slow circle, then waves it out into an arc. The same pattern as the spell used yesterday, but a beat faster. He never would have thought being an Unspeakable would mean being precise down to the _second_ , but here he is. Coloured steam spreads from his wand, shades of orange washing over the courtyard. It’s amazing how the different pace affects the entire spell, swapping yellow flames out with orange steam. 

The steam cools down and condenses, becoming droplets of water. They drip onto the pavement, staining it orange. He can feel Harry’s eyes on his back, but he doesn’t turn around to meet them. Figuring out what’s going on is more important than his _thing_ with Harry, even if his chest disagrees. 

The spell settles, and eventually the water rises into the sky. It forms a blanket a foot above the ground, perfectly flat and still; the opposite of the bowl-like one in the other courtyard. 

“It looks… straighter?” Harry announces, piping in before Draco can say anything. 

He wants to make a joke about a courtyard being gay, but decides now is not the time. “It does. And a lot stronger. See here, it’s thicker than the other core, more stable.”

By the choked-off laugh Harry manages, Draco knows his mind is also on jokes. He rolls his eyes to himself, hoping Harry can’t see the small smile he’s trying to stamp down. 

“Come on, let’s cast the other one now.”

Draco cancels the spell and pulls Harry in towards the centre, dragging him to the fountain. “Sit.”

“Am I a dog?” Harry asks, even as he sits obediently. 

“Apparently,” Draco jests, pinching him softly. 

Harry yelps and swats at Draco’s hand. They laugh for a second before Draco whirls back around and lifts his wand. He casts the spell to check the core’s shape, silver shooting from his wand and rocketing around the edge of the plaza. It slams back into his wand before rushing to the center and revealing the peaks and slopes. 

There are gentle hills around the centre, and short spikes around the edges. 

“This has definitely been meddled with,” Harry murmurs. 

“Indeed,” Draco says slowly. “The spikes must be caused by a very fast rush of magic, sudden and very powerful. The slopes in the middle though… I don’t know what they could be.”

“What if there were charms placed there to gather information about the courtyard over a period of time? Like, something to slowly map out the cracks and what-not?”

Harry’s suggestion probably has some truth in it, and Draco nods, trying not to feel bitter at how quickly Harry’s picking this up. He cancels the spell, letting the magic drop off into puffs of steam. 

“Hey! What do you think about this?” Harry asks, tapping Draco on the shoulder. He’s holding a reindeer ornament that looks like it’s made of ice. Harry holds it out to Draco so he takes it, feeling it. 

“It’s glass,” he says. “Well done too.”

Harry nods. “My parents had something like this, although I doubt it was a reindeer.” He hums for a while, thinking. “Probably an angel or something.”

“How do you know?” Draco asks, deciding work can wait for a while. 

“First Year. Hagrid gave me a photo album of my parents and their friends, and there were lots of Christmas photos. They really loved it, and their tree was always covered in glass decorations.”

Draco smiles, pleased Harry has something to hold on to, to remember with happiness. “That’s great. My family’s trees were always perfectly decorated, cold and detached, but perfect.”

Harry looks at him, his head tilted to the side. “That’s a shame. I’m sorry.”

“No, don’t worry about it. I have my own tree now, and it’s a chaotic mess of whatever I feel like buying.”

Harry chuckles at that. “Mine too. Although, it’s more filled with things the Weasleys and Teddy have made.”

Draco grins at that; the idea of Harry finally having a family who he can celebrate with. “It’s disappointing though. My tree would normally be up by now, along with the fairy lights on the front of the flat.”

“How the hell do you get lights on your _flat_?!” Harry exclaims, taking back the reindeer ornament one of the Muggles has clearly left behind. 

Draco leans in and whispers, “Magic.”

Harry shakes his head, laughing. “Should’ve known.”

Harry places the glass reindeer back on the edge of the fountain and stands up. He hauls Draco to his feet too—and when had Draco sat down in the first place?—and they make their way back to the cottage. There’s no doubt the first courtyard they found is a fake, they just need to know _why_ and _who._

*~*~*~

“Do you remember our mind map?” Harry asks once they’re back in the cottage. 

“Which one?” Draco replies dryly. Harry has far too many mind maps, but if it works it works, he guesses. 

The man just rolls his eyes, emerald catching in the light. “Suspects, Malfoy. Suspects.”

“You mean _friends_ , right?”

“Nope. They aren’t my friends anymore, not when they’ve trapped me somewhere far away just in time to miss Christmas.”

Draco laughs as that was probably meant to be the incentive for them to get back quickly, but gets up and _accios_ the paper. It comes flying into his hand from Merlin-knows-where. He moves over to the small dining table and lays it flat, beckoning for Harry to join him. 

“Here you go.”

Harry mutters his thanks and whips his wand out, using his weird charm to make the end into a Muggle pen. Draco’s going to have to ask him about it. He watches as Harry circles and underlines the people they’re certain of, and starts writing up a list of everyone else they know. 

The heading ‘Suspected Wix’ becomes overwritten with other names, and Harry has to flip the page over and write on the back too. Draco would butt in and say he needs to write down his own names, but Harry’s got them already. When Harry memorized who Draco knows is beyond him, but he doesn’t complain. If anything, it makes his heart stutter and his stomach bloom with warmth. 

“And now we begin crossing them out,” Harry announces, passing his wand to Draco.

Draco swallows at the implicit trust in such an action, and starts ruling lines through the names. They only need to find two people; two people close to their friends, and with lots of exposure to both Draco and Harry. Those points alone shrink the list quite substantially, and he narrows it down to eight people. 

“My turn,” Harry says, and Draco passes his wand back. His hand feels cold with the loss of warmth the wand brought to his skin, and empty with the loss of Harry’s magic. 

Harry crosses out a couple of other people who he doesn’t see as much as Draco thought he did, until there’s only four. 

The answer is clear now, and Draco wordlessly circles two of those names. Harry nods, it’s the only reasonable answer. 

“Gawain Robards and your work partner.”

“Who is to remain unnamed, thank you very much,” Draco snaps. 

Harry flinches at the shout and draws back, and Draco panics. 

“Security, you know?” He murmurs, trying to soften his previous statement. He doesn’t know why he snapped, Harry hasn’t ever pushed for details he knows he can’t have. 

Harry seems to forgive his silent apology, moving in close again until their shoulders are bumping.

The list of offenders is now complete: Blaise, Pansy, Theodore, Weasley, Granger, Thomas, Finnigan, Lovegood, Longbottom, Robards, and Alex. Alex is, of course, Draco’s work partner. They’ll need to be having some serious words when he gets back to London. 

Regardless, with the people figured out Draco is able to unravel the—now glaringly obvious—motive. He and Harry are being set up, and their friends and peers have gone to an insane measure to achieve it. While Draco has worked it out though, he isn’t so sure about Harry… 

And the worst part about this whole thing? It’s working; Draco has fallen for Harry, and he can only hope Harry feels the same. 


	18. Chapter 18

****

[A plastic rainbow Christmas tree with gold lights]

**December 18th 2003 - Thursday**

Harry is totally and utterly _fucked._ Not only is he frozen and shivering, his brain and limbs shutting down, but he also knows exactly why he is here; with Draco. He groans, sitting up in bed and getting stuck between the twisted sheets. He frees himself from them, hands numb with cold, and sits on the edge of the bed. Yesterday, Draco had come climbing onto the couch next to him, and the day before _Harry_ had gone to _Draco._ Today though, he is stronger. Well, more stubborn, really. 

If Harry has an inkling—a very, very strong one—than there’s no doubt that Draco has also realised it. He is going to kill his non-friends the second he gets out of here. Christmas or not. Ron and Hermione especially, because they are probably the ones who posed the idea in the first place! 

Okay, so maybe he spoke about Draco all the time, and maybe he has been pining (in silence! mostly...) for two years, but that is no reason to do _this._ Surely they weren’t so fed up with his constant chatter about Draco that they felt the need to do this? How many laws have they broken purely to get him to shut up? At least ten, surely. 

Harry sighs, hands massaging his thighs to bring feeling back into them. His breath forms a cloud in the air, white and cold. That is so not normal; he’s probably freezing from the inside out then, at the same time as outside in. Maybe the two layers of freezing flesh will meet in the middle to finish him off sooner? Harry shakes his head, that is an _awful_ thought to have so early in the morning. 

He needs to go to Draco. He needs to swallow his pride, and he needs to wrap himself around him. It’s the only way to warm up. No. No, Harry will _not_ give in. It’s just his brain talking, being logical and trying not to die. Harry knows better. He won’t die if he doesn’t go to Draco, and it’s more important to protect his heart than his body. His body will heal. 

There’s only one question left in this whole mess. Why did Draco’s friends get involved? Harry’s friends had only done this because they were sick of his denial and pining, and so why did Draco’s? The only possibility in Harry’s mind is that Draco likes him too, but that’s ridiculous. That can’t be the case, because then they would have wasted so much time dancing around each other for nothing, and Harry likes to think he’s more observant than that. He is an Auror, after all. 

Harry stands up, his legs shaking under the strain. It’s so bloody cold. He wants to run, wants to go for a jog around the cottage and through the forest. If he runs for long enough, he might make it to the village. Then he’d be able to buy some decent hot chocolate. 

Hot chocolate… Hadn’t Draco promised to make him one as his prize for winning the race? That hadn’t happened. He needs to cash that in, today, preferably. 

With new determination—and the possibility of annoying Draco _and_ getting warm at the same time—Harry forces his legs to move. He takes a step, shakes, and straightens. Harry huffs out a breath at his infinitesimal success, and takes another one. The ground rushes at him, and he hits his arm against the bedside table. 

“Shit!” Harry swears, voice remarkably loud in the silence. “Ugh.”

He picks himself back up, rubbing his arm gingerly and wincing at the pain it sends smarting up to his shoulder. He’s going to have to heal that. Hopefully Draco still has some of his potions with him. He doesn’t think the other ones are going to cover this. At least it’s not bleeding. 

Harry rolls his shoulders back, hearing the joints click with satisfaction, and takes a slow step forward. At least falling over had pushed him forward slightly. He survives this step, and takes another. Good. This is progress. Again, and again. Eventually Harry manages to shuffle his way over to the door and he grips the frame with pale knuckles. His skin is freezing, covered in goosebumps, and losing colour. He’s so cold, he doesn’t know how he’ll survive. 

That’s his brain talking, not his mind, and Harry shakes it away. There’s no way he’s dying from the cold, hypothermia be damned. If Draco could sit in a hole for days and only have a mild fever, Harry can survive this. He just needs to get closer to Draco. Hopefully being in the same room will be enough, but if it’s not, he’ll have to wake him up. That’s a good excuse for physical contact anyway. Hopefully it will be enough. 

He makes his way at an incredibly slow pace towards the living room. The hallway seems way too long, impossibly so, but he gets to the end of it without falling over again. Harry’s eyes scan over the room, still dark. He frowns, it feels like he’s been moving for hours. He pulls his wand from the waistband of his pyjamas and casts a _Tempus._ When he sees that it’s just after 7:30, he feels like turning around and going back to bed. It’s way too early to be traipsing through a cottage and freezing to death. 

Sighing and knowing there’s nothing for it, he pushes off the wall and makes his way to the couch. Draco is wrapped in three blankets, tucked into a ball. The only visible part of him is a tuft of blond hair, poking out of the blankets. Harry doesn’t want to wake him, he looks so comfortable. No, he is just going to sit on the arm of the couch and be near him. It’s pointless waking him up, ‘cause then he’ll just want to get as far away from Harry as possible. Why does he have to be so stubborn?! 

“Harry…” 

Harry’s head snaps to Draco. He could swear he just heard… No. That’s impossible, and Harry doesn’t want to think about it. There’s no way Draco just said his name in his sleep. If he did, Harry would be forced to reconsider certain things. He doesn’t want to, he’s safe in his assumptions, he doesn’t need to think about the chance Draco likes him back.

Harry sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. He needs to wake Draco. He is warming up, but not quickly enough. It’s also not going to help him much to hear Draco murmur his name in a sleep-muddled voice. No, it’s much better in the long run to just wake him up. 

Harry shuffles close, pushing to the very edge of the arm. He doesn’t want to kick Draco in the face, but it might be creepy if he woke him up at this angle. The first thing he’d see is Harry’s upside down face… Yeah, that won’t work. He sighs, rubs at his sore arm, and repositions himself. He slides his feet to the ground and moves to his knees, facing Draco side on. That’s better. 

His hand reaches out for the blanket covered body, hoping it lands on a shoulder or something. He can’t see anything, and what he thinks is a shoulder could just as easily be a hip. Shaking his head, he rocks the body under his hand. 

“Hey, Malfoy, time to wake up,” he murmurs, voice pitched soft and quiet. 

Draco doesn’t stir though, just stays fast asleep with his head under the blankets. 

“Draco, come on,” Harry tries again. “Draco, wake up.”

Nope. This isn’t working. He’s going to need to be a bit more forceful. 

“Malfoy! It’s eight!” He says, shaking him a bit harder. 

Draco grumbles something and burrows further into the blankets. He doesn’t move Harry’s hand off him though, so that’s something. 

“Come on Malfoy. You need to get up.”

“ _Why_?” He grunts, tucking the blankets tighter around himself. 

“Because you’re freezing, and you need to move.” It’s not wrong. Draco’s skin is just as cold as Harry’s; he can feel it _through_ the blankets. 

Draco shrugs, and Harry takes a moment to feel relieved that his hand _is_ on a shoulder after all. “Don’t care.”

“You will when you don’t wake up again, come on.” Harry doesn’t wait for an answer, pulling the blankets away from his head. 

Draco shrieks in surprise and grabs the blankets, tugging them back down. He grunts and curses as Harry’s grip tightens, holding them off. Harry wraps his arms around Draco now, letting go of the blankets once he’s sure Draco can’t get away. He pulls him to his chest, his back cold against him. 

“Unhand me, Potter,” Draco growls even as he melts into the embrace. 

“I don’t think so, Malfoy. You’re absolutely freezing, and I’m the only thing that will be able to warm you up.”

Draco huffs, but his head lolls back onto Harry’s shoulder. His eyes are bright silver in the darkness, alive with warmth despite his body turning steadily colder. He smiles softly at Harry, his expression open and trusting. It pulls at Harry’s heart, cutting him open and leaving him bare. Harry returns the smile and drops his head to nuzzle against Draco’s. 

Draco is too out of it to remember this, surely. Hopefully. He doesn’t seem to mind the action, pushing back at Harry and moaning softly. Harry wants to growl. Wants to put him back down onto the couch and press into his neck. He wonders what he tastes like, how he’ll react to lips on his throat.

Harry snarls at himself. He can’t think like that for multiple reasons. The first being that Draco does _not_ feel the same way, and the only reaction will be disgust. The second because Draco is _sick._ Well, not sick, but extremely cold. Harry’s cold too, another shiver tracking through his body. He’d forgotten. 

He forces his head away from Draco, who groans in disappointment. 

“ _Harry_.” Draco’s voice is broken, desperate. 

Harry shakes his head, pushing away the fog that wants to cover his mind and drown him. He needs to keep it together. This embrace is for warmth, for survival. Not pleasure, or fun, or comfort. It needs to stay that way, otherwise Harry will have to put Draco back down. 

“Not now, Malfoy.”

“But—”

“No. You need to warm up.”

Draco huffs and closes his eyes, turning his face into Harry’s neck. It can’t be a comfortable position, but he stays like that for a while, just breathing. Harry doesn’t think about the fact that he’s _breathing him in_ , trying to keep himself in check. 

A minute passes, dragging on into another, and another. Harry sits on his haunches, toes going numb where they’re pressed into the floor, and tries not to move. He’s pretty sure Draco has gone to sleep on his shoulder, and he doesn’t have the heart to move him. He looks so peaceful in sleep, a mile away from the uptight man he presents to the rest of the world. Harry likes it, quite a lot. His legs are going numb though, pins and needles creeping up his thighs.

“Malfoy,” he murmurs, aware that Draco might be conscious enough to notice if he uses his first name. “Come on, we need to get up now.”

Draco mumbles something Harry doesn’t catch, nuzzling his face into his neck. Harry bites back a growl and pushes him gently. 

“But I’m _tired_ ,” he mutters, breathing in deeply before turning away. “And you’re comfortable.”

Harry shakes his head, hiding his laugh. “You’re also warm now, and there are things I want to do today.”

“Like? We’re stuck here.”

“Like getting us closer to leaving,” Harry says, pushing Draco a bit harder. “Also, my legs are falling asleep.”

“Fine,” Draco sighs. He falls forward, catches himself on the couch, and pushes up until he’s sitting on the cushions. “Better?”

“Yes, but you actually need to _get up_ as well.” Harry raises an eyebrow and looks down at him. He’d had no idea Draco could be so stubborn when tired. It’s kind of cute. 

“Why though? It’s not like I have anything to do,” Draco says, pouting. Harry wants to kiss it away and slap it off simultaneously. 

“What about your paintings? Surely you have more to do for those?”

Draco seems to kick into action. He sits up straight, eyes wild, and runs a hand through his hair. “I’d forgotten about those!”

Harry chuckles as Draco springs off the couch and basically runs to the bedroom. 

“Hey! Wait up a sec!” He calls, remembering his promised hot chocolate. 

Draco spins back around, face slightly flushed with the rapid movement. “You’re the one who told me to get going!”

Harry walks slowly towards Draco, almost predatorily. “You promised me a hot chocolate, remember?” 

Draco licks his lips, eyes glazing. Maybe Harry is a bit _too_ close… “I did, didn’t I?”

Harry takes a step back and nods. “I’m cashing it in.”

Draco blinks at the new distance and seems to snap out of it. He sighs. “Might as well make two then.”

He brushes past Harry, arms touching, and walks back to the kitchen. 

Harry watches him leave, his chest aching. Maybe he _does_ need to rethink Draco’s emotions in all this. An uninterested person would not act like that, he’s sure. The thought of Draco reciprocating his feelings brings a spring to Harry’s step as he walks towards Draco again. 

He wants to stand behind him at the countertop, to close him in with arms on either side. He wants to bury his face in Draco’s shiny hair and breathe him in like Draco has been all morning. Harry swallows hard and forces himself to stand a little away, enough distance to be proper but not isolated. 

Draco’s hands are moving quickly, bringing mugs out of the cabinet and the ingredients from around the kitchen with a flick of his wand. Thankfully, the mugs are totally normal—not the hideous mugs they’d found… a week ago? Has it really been a week?

He watches as Draco froths the milk, melting chocolate, pouring them together and swirling them. They mix into a beautiful combination, and Harry is tempted to take it right now. But then Draco pulls out cream, marshmallows, and even more chocolate. He tops the milk with the cream, covers it in soft pink marshmallows, and grates chocolate over the whole thing. Harry licks his lips as Draco passes him a mug. 

“Is this satisfactory, Potter?” He asks, teasing smile in place. 

“It’s perfect,” Harry says, not bothered masking the fondness from his voice. 

Draco’s smile turns pleased and soft, and he picks up his own mug. “I’m glad.”

Draco then turns away and carries his mug down the corridor, moving at a much more normal pace. 

Harry sighs and runs a hand through his hair. The hot chocolate looks delicious, but all he can think about is Draco. Draco, making him something just because he asked. Draco, who is adorable when sleepy. Draco, who rushed off to create works of art for other people. Harry can’t get his mind off the man, even as he carries his own mug into the living room and places it on the coffee table. 

He had wanted to write up a first-hand report for the Auror Department, but he doesn’t think he has the strength of will to do that right now. Not after Draco took his breath away by just _existing._ He gazes around the room, looking for something to do. His eyes quickly fall to a cupboard he hasn’t noticed before, sitting about a foot from the fireplace. Harry tilts his head, certain that wasn’t there before. Oh well. Probably just another way for the cottage to help him. There are some serious spells and charm work on this place.

He walks over to the cupboard, opening it to find it relatively empty. There’s a couple of large plastic tubs filled with decorations, and a— fake Christmas tree? Of fucking course there’s a Christmas tree! 

Harry rolls his eyes but picks the box up before carrying it back into the living room. He shuts the cupboard door with barely a word and plops the box down. It’s heavier than it looks. He sets it up so it’s standing on end, opening the top. He quickly sees that this _is not_ a normal tree. Unless the top is usually purple? Harry doesn’t think so. 

He pulls the rest of the tree out, eyes bulging out of his head as new colours make themselves known. Not only is there a bloody Christmas tree, but it’s also rainbow! Harry groans—which quickly becomes a growl—as he stands it up. The top is purple, followed by blue, green, yellow, orange, and red. The whole thing is glittery, and the stand has tinsel wrapped around the red plastic. It’s absolutely ridiculous, but also kind of… perfect. 

Harry shakes his head for what feels like the thousandth time and pulls out the tubs as well. When he opens the lid of the first one, glitter puffs out in a sparkly cloud and coats Harry’s face and hair. He sighs but doesn’t know what else he expected. It does make him laugh though, when he sees his reflection in a glass bauble. 

Harry puffs his cheeks out and then expels the air, running his hands through his hair. He has no idea where to start setting up a rainbow tree. His have always been dark green. They’ve also always been _real,_ so this is a new experience in two ways. 

He starts by expanding the branches, certain they aren’t meant to be squished together by the end. He screws his nose up as the plastic crinkles and digs into his hands, but he puts up with it. Plenty of people use these things, surely he can figure it out. Taking a calming breath, he continues with the rest of the tree. Up and down, left and right, the whole way around. He’s utterly sick of these colours by the time he’s finished, and he hasn’t even begun decorating it! At least he didn’t have to put it together, piece by piece… That would have sucked. 

Harry pulls things out from the first tub, laying them out on the floor. Fingers crossed for neutral colours (aka silver and literally nothing else) he sorts through them. He finds multiple strips of tinsel, a weird thing of beads, and a lot of glass ornaments. Everything else is red, or green, or gold. Gold might be okay, but it might also lean into the yellow and orange of the tree, and over power everything else. Damn rainbow tree. He’s going to kill whoever thought this tree was a good idea. 

He picks up the tinsel and loops it over his shoulder as if it were a rope. He gets as close to the tree as he can without its branches poking his stomach, and begins winding it around the top. Then he slowly moves around the tree, draping it over the branches as he gets progressively closer to the bottom. It’s slightly too long, and he goes back up until it’s run out. Then he steps back and admires his work. 

It’s hideous. Worse than how the tree started. It’s wonky, uneven, and not remotely attractive or pretty. It looks like a toddler did it. Harry sighs, supposing that’s true considering the lack of effort he normally puts into this. Usually Teddy does it, if he’s honest. He cares more about it being representative of family than drop dead gorgeous, but that isn’t possible right now. No, _right now_ it needs to be at least somewhat pretty. Hell, he’ll take _cute_ over this abomination. 

He sucks his cheek between his teeth, contemplating if it’s worth it to just use magic. He decides it isn’t, and that he’d rather do this himself. A bit of a challenge. Something to distract himself from Draco. 

“Oh lord,” Harry mutters. “He is going to have a heart attack when he sees this.”

Suddenly, he needs to get this done. Needs it to be gorgeous, stunning, beautiful. Draco needs to like it, otherwise he’ll just undo it all and restart himself. Harry can’t have that. 

Harry unwraps the failed tinsel, parts of it flaking off and landing all over the floor. He starts looping it around the tree again, this time taking much more care about where it’s going. When he steps away much later, sweat beginning to bead on his forehead from holding his arms up so long, he grins. It’s well-placed and neat this time, the silver no longer looking like an explosion. He beams as he picks up a couple of ornaments, wondering which ones he should place where. 

The first is a glass angel, exactly like the ones his parents used to have. His heart clenches, and he puts it in the front, all the way near the top. He smiles at the reminder of his parents, proud and beautiful among the chaos. The next one is a silver bauble with ‘Happy Christmas’ written along the side in red. Harry decides to put that down the bottom so the red lines up with the tree. It’s looking pretty decent, so he continues with more confidence. 

By the time all the tubs are empty of ornaments—other strange things left behind, like a string of socks (who the hell would put _socks_ on a Christmas tree?)—Harry is exhausted. His arms ache and his head hurts. He doesn’t do much with colour usually, so this whole thing has been an experiment. That said though, he thinks it’s come along quite nicely. Fingers crossed Draco agrees. 

Harry tidies up, filling the tubs with leftover decorations and shooting several cleaning charms at the floor. The glitter sticks a bit and doesn’t all lift off, but the scraps of tinsel and pines that have already fallen off are scooped up and vanished. He then pushes the tubs back into the mysterious cupboard, and hauls the tree further into the room. It fills it up well, and he sits back down on the couch happy with his work. 

Now, what was he doing? _Not_ thinking about Draco, and… Oh yeah. Writing up a report. Harry sighs, happiness up in a cloud of smoke. He hates paperwork. He hates it so much, and here he is, about to do some voluntarily. Robards would _pay_ to see this. 

Of course, thinking about Robards just makes Harry slightly annoyed. The man, who’s supposed to be his _boss,_ his _superior_ , was one of the people who got Harry in this mess. The paperwork probably isn’t even necessary; if Robards was involved he’ll know everything already. Harry sighs but decides to do it anyway. Even if it doesn’t help the Aurors, it’ll help him sort everything out. He doesn’t think he could cope with another mind map. 

He summons his notebook—which comes thumping out from the bedroom Draco is locked up in—and turns his wand into a pen. Once he has a clean page in front of him, he turns around on the couch and pulls his knees up. Using his thighs as a makeshift table, he scribbles out a messy heading and starts jotting down dot points. It’s important for him to summarise on paper before putting anything into a formal layout. 

_Auror Potter and Unspeakable Malfoy: Teleported by a Vanishing Cabinet_

It’s shit, he knows it is, but it will do until he can think of something better. What’s even happened since they’ve arrived? He honestly can’t remember much. This may be a problem.   
  


  * _Harry Potter was called in to work early on Monday (1/12/2003)_


  * _Found a Vanishing Cabinet (VC) in a park—took someone’s hair off (identity unconfirmed)_


  * _Draco Malfoy was brought in to run tests on it_


  * _Malfoy touched it after protective and security measures—teleported himself and Potter into a forest_


  * _Anti-apparition wards_


  * _Muggle village nearby_


  * _Magic cottage—able to automatically stock supplies (no Floo Network connection)_



Harry pauses, wand-pen above the page. How much should he include? This is just dot points for now, but he will eventually turn it into an actual report. Should he just write everything he can remember? He doesn’t know, which really gives away how often he does this. He sighs, deciding it’s best to just get it all out there.

  * _Trap set for Malfoy—magical core identifier, food and water supplies_


  * _Trapped for three days before recovered by Potter_


  * _Injuries including: bruising, lacerations, starvation, mild hypothermia, resulting fever_


  * _Speedy recovery thanks to healing supplies and spells_


  * _Duplicated village and courtyard—identical but void of people, matching VC located in courtyard_


  * _VC contained cotton and leather (both dyed purple and silver)_


  * _Curse on VC to create freezing sensation (steadily builds in intensity) when contact between Malfoy and Potter is delayed/infrequent_


  * _Group of 11 wix in purple/silver robes (now identified*)_


  * _Motive: a romantic set-up for Malfoy and Potter_



_*see end of report  
  
_

_*Ronald Weasley, Hermione Granger, Luna Lovegood, Seamus Finnigan, Dean Thomas, Neville Longbottom, Pansy Parkinson, Blaise Zabini, Theodore Nott, Gawain Robards, and Malfoy’s work partner (identity unknown)_

  
Harry reads back over his notes. It’s weird to think that everything that’s happened over the past… seventeen? eighteen? days can be summarised so neatly into so few points. It makes him feel strange. Bare. His experience has been stripped to the minimum, void of all emotion. He doesn’t like it, but that’s the purpose of the report. He shakes his head, trying to shake the feeling away at the same time, and begins putting it into a formal layout. 

Draco arrives about an hour later, hair flopping in his eyes and paint streaked down his hands and arms again. Harry’s heart clenches at how beautiful he looks splattered in colour, but tries to ignore him. Draco scoffs, which quickly becomes a laugh, and Harry looks up without having written a single word. 

“Where did you get that _thing_?” He asks, pointing at the Christmas tree. 

“Honestly?”

Draco nods, lip pulled between his teeth to stop his laughter. 

“A cupboard kind of… appeared? And inside it was that, and a few tubs of decorations.” Harry nods at the cupboard, and Draco’s eyebrows raise in surprise. 

“Well, that was… useful.”

“You hate it, don’t you?” Harry asks. His heart sinks at the idea of his hard work being tossed away in a single sentence. 

“No! Did you decorate it?” Draco makes his way closer to Harry, taking in the rainbow tree from a distance. 

“I did,” Harry responds carefully. 

“You did a good job,” Draco says. “The silver works well.”

Draco stifles a yawn as he approaches, and then his face crumples. He looks exhausted, no longer able to hold onto the facade of wakefulness. Harry puts the report aside and makes some room for Draco on the couch, but Draco doesn’t seem to even notice. Instead, he climbs into Harry’s lap. Harry’s breath catches in his throat as Draco presses their chests together and drops his head to Harry’s shoulder. Draco breathes in a couple of times, slow and steady. Harry can tell the exact moment Draco falls asleep, mere seconds after sitting down. 

Harry sits there, confused, afraid to move. He doesn’t know what to do. Draco has never done this, at least, never so openly. Sure, he’s snuck into Harry’s bed during the night for warmth before, but he hasn’t ever fallen asleep _on_ him while Harry is still awake. Except for this morning… Maybe Draco felt emboldened by it, and decided ‘fuck it’. It’s something Harry’s more likely to do than Draco, but his heart swells at the idea. He _had_ said Harry was comfortable, he clearly wasn’t lying. 

Harry very slowly lifts his hands, moving them up to rest on Draco’s legs. When he doesn’t move, just keeps sleeping, Harry gathers more courage. He drags his hands up Draco’s back, over his shirt and the skin of his neck, and into his hair. It’s silky and smooth, perfectly soft despite the rest of Draco’s body being covered in splotches of paint. Harry’s nose crinkles as he remembers that fact, shooting cleaning charms at Draco to wipe away the paint and anything else on his skin. After a second, Harry casts one on himself as well. 

He doesn’t know what to do now. Draco Malfoy is on his lap, sleeping, with his head pressed into Harry’s neck. He supposes there isn’t much he _can_ do, and that he might as well go to sleep. It’s technically his turn on the couch anyway. 

With a restrained grunt, he lifts Draco off his thighs and holds him up. Harry pushes what he can off the couch, and rearranges the blankets and pillows with a mumbled spell. He then lies himself down with Draco still cradled to his chest, and shuffles them around. Draco groans in his sleep and snuggles in closer, hands wrapping around Harry’s waist. Harry smiles to himself and pulls the blankets up and over them, careful not to jostle Draco too much. 

He’s like a child, latching onto their mother and determined not to be moved. Or a cat that only wants attention and naps. Harry doesn’t know whether it’s these comparisons or just his self-preservation slowly disintegrating, but something urges him to kiss the top of Draco’s head. Once the notion is in mind though, he can’t shake it. Harry sighs, knowing he’ll give in. He rocks Draco softly, making sure he’s asleep. And then he touches his lips to Draco’s forehead, quick and innocent. 

Harry’s lips tingle as he pulls away, and he grips Draco tighter. He probably won’t be happy in the morning, but for now everything is at peace. Harry presses his head against Draco’s and breathes him in, drifting off into sleep. 


	19. Chapter 19

****

[Brown cardboard Christmas cracker with red ribbons and words]

**December 19th 2003 - Friday**

Draco blinks his eyes open, the darkness pressing against them and swallowing all thought. He’s hot, sweat beading on his skin. He feels out of place; he should be shivering, not sweating. Lifting his head, he tries to look around. Everything is dark, bathed in a lack of light. It’s like he’s been blind folded, everything shut out and incomprehensible. Everything, that is, except the body in front of him. 

Draco is sitting in someone’s lap, warm thighs under his own and a chest against his. He doesn’t know who they belong to, just that they’re warm and comforting. He isn’t sure how he came to be in this position, a part of him recognising that it’s unusual. The rest of him doesn’t care. 

He hasn’t been touched in so long. It’s been years since his coworkers have come into contact with him at all, and with his friends abandoning him for the most part, there hasn’t been anyone around him. That leaves one night stands and relationships that have all gone up in flames; that has to be what this is, then. 

The body beneath him has to be that of a stranger’s, someone who will vanish long before sunrise. That’s why it’s so dark, Draco must have only been asleep for an hour. He nods to himself, eyes flicking shut again. The stranger’s chest pushes against his as he breathes, his heartbeat strong against Draco’s. Draco sighs, wanting more but not knowing how to get it. 

The man is asleep under him, fully clothed. Draco’s fully clothed too, and he tries to shrug himself out of his shirt. The need to _touch_ overwhelms him, leaving him desperate and craving it. He runs his hands up the stranger's chest, feeling the muscles bunch and tense. Draco moans softly and drags his hands up to his neck, wrapping them around the warm skin and squeezing gently. He wants to kiss that neck, wants to lick it and suck it, sink his teeth into it. 

Draco moves his hands up into the man’s hair, threading his fingers between the strands and tightening them into fists. The man grunts under him and what’s left of Draco’s self control snaps. 

His groin is right above the stranger’s, so close with only fabric separating them. Draco imagines them both naked, imagines the slide of skin and the sounds that come with it. He pushes down, his cock dragging against his trousers. The pressure drives him wild, and he aches for more. He presses forward, slotting himself as firmly as he can against the stranger. Then he rocks forward, thrusting his groin into the man’s stomach. 

Draco’s mouth finds his neck, licking stripes up his throat. The man makes a garbled noise but doesn’t push him off, his hands wrapping around Draco’s hips and hauling him closer. Draco bites back a groan, growing feverish with his need. He sucks on the skin, teeth grazing over it. He wants to mark this man up, wants everyone who sees him leaving Draco’s flat to know what they were doing. Draco sucks hard, feeling it warm up as blood swells under it. 

The man grunts and then goes still. Draco doesn’t care, speeding his pace up. He needs release, needs to _feel_ something. This always helps him feel better, and the stranger seems to know what he’s doing. Draco grinds down, rolling his hips harder. He finds the man’s cock just as hard as his own, pressing against his jeans. If the outline is anything to go by, his cock is huge. Draco wants it inside him, wants to feel himself split open with it. 

“Draco,” the man gasps, his voice rough. 

It’s… familiar. Draco pauses. How does he know his name? 

“ _Malfoy_.”

Draco freezes and then leaps into action. Shit shit shit. The cloud over his mind has parted, and he knows exactly who this _stranger_ is. 

“Fuck,” he murmurs, sliding off Harry’s lap and pulling his hands from his hair. “Fuck.”

Draco rights his clothing, thankful for the night still shrouding the room in darkness, and practically runs out of the room. He turns down the corridor and slams into the bathroom, not caring about the noise he’s making. He can’t believe he’d just done that. He’s basically molested Harry in his sleep!

Draco turns the light on, hands flying up to cover his eyes. After a second he realises he’s shaking, and he drops them. He whirls around to face the mirror, hands gripping the basin for support. His face is pale, his hair a mess. There is saliva dripping from his mouth, strings of it connecting his lips to his chin. He can’t believe he did that. How the hell did he do that?!

He turns away, not able to take his reflection and the reminder of an event years ago. He hopes Harry doesn’t barge in this time. He doesn’t want to bleed, even if he deserves it. 

He paces, cursing his own name over and over. Draco doesn’t deserve Harry’s care. _He’s_ the one who fell asleep on him last night, had basically jumped on him and immediately drifted off. He’d only wanted to be warm, and he’d been _so tired_ and _cold_. That’s no excuse for abusing him in the morning though. 

What time is it anyway? Draco pats his legs up and down, trying to find his wand. He can’t. It’s not there, and panic grips his heart. He stops breathing, growing desperate and anxious. Oh. Of course. It’s in the bedroom, where he was painting last night. Draco sighs, runs a hand through his hair and tugs at it. Shower. A shower will help him. 

Draco strips his clothes off, ignoring his now soft prick, and turns the taps on. He makes the water as hot as possible before stepping under the spray, tipping his head back and letting the water fall down his neck and chest. He wants to scrub it all away, wants to pretend like none of this ever happened. Harry will never forgive him for this. 

*~*~*~

Draco creeps back into the living room after his shower, dressed in new clothes with his hair styled differently. He couldn’t bear to look at himself in the mirror, so he needed to change something. Instead of a black button up shirt, he’s wearing a loose pink t-shirt and ripped black jeans. His hair is parted to the side, sweeping over his forehead. It’s different, and he thinks he looks pretty good like this. Even better, it distracts him from what he’s done. 

Harry is asleep on the couch still, and with the room still shrouded in darkness Draco can barely see him. He knows he’s there though, lying down under the blankets. Draco tiptoes closer, being extremely careful not to make a sound. When he arrives, he gently pulls the blankets down from where they’re wrapped around Harry’s shoulders. Draco presses the tip of his wand against Harry’s neck, and whispers healing spells to remove the marks he littered over his throat. 

He feels a pang of sadness, erasing the evidence he was ever there, but knows it’s the right thing to do. Harry doesn’t want to walk around with Draco’s mouth evident across his skin. The bruises were bright red, standing out against his dark skin, and Draco wants to mark him up again immediately after he’s removed them. But he won’t. He’s in his right mind now, he knows what he did was wrong, and he only wants to do it again if Harry does too. 

Which he doesn’t. No, Draco is alone in his feelings. It’s the only way he can avoid doing something like _this_ , even if he doesn’t quite believe himself anymore. Harry had moaned under him, had grabbed his hips and pulled him closer, had said his name as if it were a prayer. But he was half asleep, not aware of what was happening. No, Draco can’t think about it. He’ll make excuses for his behaviour, project his feelings so much he begins believing it was consensual and reciprocated. He can’t. 

Draco sighs and pulls the blankets back up over Harry, then turns and creeps away into the bedroom. His footsteps sound awfully loud as he walks down the corridor, and his body shivers as the distance between himself and Harry grows. He pinches his arm and winces at the pain, but it takes the edge off and allows him to keep walking. 

When he reaches the bedroom, he throws the door open and shuts it softly, letting it click into place as it closes. He paces to the bed and flops onto it, burying his face in the pillow. It smells like Harry though, and it’s a sick reminder of what he’s done. Draco shoots cleaning and scent-neutralising charms at it, breathing in the smell of fresh laundry instead. 

Goosebumps prickle at his skin, his hands starting to tingle from the cold. His body shivers, shaking as tremors wreck through it. He wants to cry. He wants to drown in his misery and never face Harry again. He’s a coward, and the bumps across his skin are reminders. If he wasn’t, he would have apologised and gotten over it. No one was seriously hurt, hell, Harry didn’t even wake up! Draco is the only one hurting over this, and he’s causing more pain by isolating himself. He doesn’t care though. Can’t bring himself to get up. 

It’s lonely, being Draco Malfoy. He’d thought he had someone to grab onto this morning, someone who would reciprocate his actions and enjoy them, but he was wrong. He’s just as alone as he always has been, and that stings. 

Draco sits up, unable to take his swirling thoughts any longer. He needs to do something, needs to occupy his mind. His eyes flicker over to the paintings, resting against the chest of drawers as they dry. Blaise’s rose is finally finished in the painting regard, and can now be added to the list of art needing to be completed. 

The one Draco started to give to himself is painted too, watercolours this time. The lines are sharp and beautifully curved, the palette soft but cold. It’s perfect, and he thinks he’s going to hang it above his bed when he gets back to London. The thought sends a pang of sadness through his heart, as if striking it with an arrow. He misses his flat. Misses his work and seeing Alex’s glare. He misses his mother, his friends. There’s only three of them, and they’ve all drifted apart somewhat, but when they do get together it’s like they never left. 

Draco stands up, ignoring the way his body shivers in a cursed cold, and walks over to the paintings. He lifts the one for Blaise up and shrinks it, placing it in his coat pocket hanging in the wardrobe. Harry’s already seen them, but habits are hard to break. His fingers brush against the narcissus and he smiles, feeling some of the ice around his heart melt away. When Harry had first found the paintings, he’d only seen the basic one for his mother, on paper. Now though, it’s a massive canvas filled with bright colours. He can’t wait for her to see it. 

Draco turns back around and pulls out another canvas. He’s already planned out the painting for Theo, already sketched the pink flowers of the Theo azalea, but now he needs to paint it. Draco prepares his paints and brushes, wards the canvas in the necessary spells, and begins creating yet another work of art he’s going to give away. 

*~*~*~

The sound of pots and pans rings in Draco’s ears, and he’s pulled from his trance. He’s splattered in paint yet again, his hands as pink as his shirt. There are spots of white on his black jeans, some seeping into the slits and onto his knees. He huffs at the mess he always seems to make when painting and stands up. He futilely swipes at the paint, finding it already dry. There’s no point in spelling any of it away either, since he’s just going to get more on himself later. 

The smell of bacon stirs Draco’s interest, and his stomach rumbles as he remembers that he hasn’t eaten all day. He casts a _Tempus_ and feels some of the life drain out of him as he realises it’s already ten. He’s been awake for about four hours, and is yet to talk to Harry about what happened. Draco sighs, tries to brush paint off one more time, and makes his way to the door. 

Once he’s in the corridor, the smell of pancakes drifts down to him too. Harry has to be doing this on purpose, has to be trying to draw Draco out of the bedroom. But damn it, he’s never been able to resist a breakfast of pancakes and bacon. 

“Oh! You’re alive! Great!” Harry says the second Draco comes into view. “ _And_ you’re covered in paint again,” he adds under his breath. Draco catches it anyway and scowls at him. 

“What are you cooking?” He asks, knowing exactly what it is already. 

“Pancakes with bacon,” Harry replies, throwing a knowing look over his shoulder. “Here you go,” he says, sliding a plate over to Draco. 

It has two massive pancakes on it, perfectly golden and soft. They’re drizzled in maple syrup, with bacon in a pile next to them. There’s also a little pot of blueberries and strawberries, and Draco beams at Harry as he takes it. Harry smiles back and nods to the fridge. 

“Apparently there’s also pumpkin juice in the fridge now too, if you were interested.”

Draco’s eyes widen as he nods, summons two glasses, and immediately fills them up. He passes one to Harry, who grins at him in thanks, and carries his breakfast over to the dining table. 

“I’m gonna have a shower while this cooks,” Harry announces a little later. “It’s under charms so everything automatically turns off when it’s finished, but I’d appreciate a _stasis_ charm to keep it warm.”

Draco nods around his mouthful. “Of course.”

Harry inclines his head in thanks and dashes into the bathroom, the shower starting up barely a second later. 

Draco finishes his breakfast in silence, mulling over Harry’s behaviour. That is not the way to greet someone who tried to molest you in your sleep. Harry made him one of his favourite breakfasts, and then went to shower. He hasn’t come back yet and it’s nearly been twenty minutes, highly unusual for Harry. His showers are normally very short, having them for necessity and not enjoyment. Not like Draco does. 

When he _does_ make an appearance afterwards, Draco has long since finished his food. Harry thanks him as he bites into his still-warm pancakes, and Draco pushes back his chair. 

“I have to get back,” he says, taking his plate and glass into the kitchen to clean. 

“What were you painting this time?” Harry asks, taking a long sip of pumpkin juice. 

Draco chews his lip. “Something for Theo.”

Harry hums. “What?”

Draco huffs. “Why do you care?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Harry asks, hurt plain in his voice. 

“This morning? Do you not remember?” Draco wants to slap himself for bringing it up, but he would have had to eventually anyway. Better to rip the bandaid off, even if it hurts like hell. 

Harry sighs. “I do.”

“And?”

“And what, Malfoy?” Harry says, sounding tired and annoyed. “Did you think I’d hate you or something?”

Draco can’t answer that, the truth of it hitting too close to home. He turns the tap on and warms the water, washing his plate in slow circles. 

Harry sighs again. “I’ll take that as a yes, shall I?” 

The sound of a chair grating against the floor fills the kitchen, but Draco can’t bring himself to look up. Harry’s arms wrap around him, and Draco freezes. Harry reaches across him to turn the tap off, his head resting on Draco’s shoulder. Draco’s heartbeat slows, his breath catching in his throat. Harry nuzzles his face into his neck.

“I could never hate you, Draco,” he murmurs, breath warm on Draco’s skin. 

Draco tips his head to the side and his eyes fall shut. “But—”

“No buts.” Harry sighs deeply, arms wrapping tighter around his waist. “What you did was a momentary lapse of judgement. You didn’t know what was happening.”

Draco chews the inside of his cheek, not quite believing what he’s hearing. He pulls away, prying Harry’s hands off him. “How do you even know what happened? I thought you were asleep.”

Harry shakes his head but steps back. His voice drops lower, but Draco doesn’t pay it any attention. “I was awake for all of it.”

That, on the other hand, catches his attention. “And you didn’t push me away? Why the fuck didn’t you shove me off?!” His voice raises, tone becoming harsh. He knows it’s unfair, that there’s probably something deeper here, but he doesn’t want to think about it. 

Harry only shakes his head again. “Let’s change the topic.”

Draco runs a hand through his hair, pushing it out of his eyes. “Fine. I’ll finish here, you eat your breakfast, and then we can talk about getting out of here.” He’s sick of Harry’s shit, sick of not knowing where he stands with him. This just adds yet another layer of confusion that he doesn’t want to deal with. 

*~*~*~

Draco isn’t sure what they’re going to talk about. It’s obvious that there’s still no way to leave. They haven’t made any connections, just gathered enough information that they should be _able_ to. The mystery 11 have all been identified, they’ve found cotton and leather—even if they don’t understand the meaning behind it—as well as figuring out that the strange cold they feel when apart is a curse. Well, probably not a _curse_ exactly, but not something they want to upset too much. 

Still, this whole ‘romantic set up’ they’ve been put in isn’t doing much to help his situation. It’s only amplifying the feeling he’s spent years trying to push aside. Three whole years, and many more if he’s being honest, of trying to ignore the way he feels about Harry. How fit he’d become after Hogwarts, all that time training for the Aurors. How caring he’d been after he’d gotten over the shock of having to work with Draco. How ready he is to protect those he cares about. 

He sighs. He’s going to have to tell Harry. Not about his pathetic crush—because it is just that: a _crush._ He’s not in love or whatever it is Alex and Pansy believe—but about the motive behind them being stuck here. Draco is positive that their friends somehow got together, abused their combined power and strength, and teleported them into the nether. Okay, not quite the nether, but as far away from London as possible. It’s an extreme length to go to to get him to act on his feelings. 

But there’s also then the question of why _Harry’s_ friends got involved. Surely they wouldn’t have wanted anything to do with setting them up. Draco doesn’t exactly have the greatest track record with them. Unless… unless Harry has been pining after him as well, and they are just as sick of it as his friends are? 

It sounds like a ridiculous notion, or at least, it would have three weeks ago. Now though, Draco is sure Harry is hiding something. There’s no way he wouldn’t be angry, or at least upset, about what happened this morning otherwise. It seems like the only option. Harry Potter _has_ to return his feelings. Now the question is though, what does he do about it? Draco has never been good with coming to terms about things, especially where emotions are concerned. That’s why he’d rather ignore things, push them aside. He’s done that quite a bit lately. 

Harry plonks down on the sofa, remarkably close to Draco. His thigh is warm and his eyes are bright, and Draco doesn’t know how to react. His mind flicks to the nights they’ve spent here together recently, wrapped up in each other to keep warm. And then the turn it took this morning. He’s amazed Harry wants to be anywhere near this sofa, let alone basically _asking_ to be touched. 

“You wanted to talk?” He says, head tilted and eyes focused solely on Draco. It’s unnerving, his gaze pinning Draco in place. 

“About our situation, and why we’re here,” Draco says, trying to get Harry on track. 

Harry seems a bit crestfallen at that, but perks up again quickly. “We already know though, don’t we?”

Draco nods. “I do, yes.”

“Well so do I.”

He takes a breath, trying to keep calm. This isn’t going to work if he strangles Harry first. “I’m not so sure you do.”

“Try me.”

Draco huffs. “Our friends are setting us up,” he says, unable to keep his voice from shaking. Warmth rushes to his cheeks in what he knows is a furious blush. 

Harry nods in agreement. He doesn’t move though, just sits there with his thigh leaning into Draco’s. “I know.”

“Do you… do you think it’s working?”

Harry swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing. Draco tears his eyes away, pulling them back up to Harry’s face. He nods slowly, gaze intent on Draco. His eyes drop slightly, landing on Draco’s mouth. Draco licks his lips subconsciously, and then realises the gravity of the action. He looks away. 

“What about you?” Harry asks, soft, suddenly unsure. 

Draco doesn’t know what to say. Harry feels inevitable, a strong pull that he doesn’t think he could have ignored even if this hadn’t happened. He nods too. 

Harry suddenly shifts away, moving back. Draco’s head snaps up, his leg growing cold with the absence of Harry’s. 

“I, I can’t. I’m sorry.” Harry stands up and rushes out of the living room, covering his face and refusing to look back at Draco. 

Draco stands too, hands balling into fists. “Don’t you dare run away!” He shouts at Harry’s retreating back. 

Harry’s too far gone though, too caught up in his own mind. He runs out of sight down the corridor, and the slamming door a few seconds later tells Draco he’s locked himself in the bedroom. 

Draco flops back down onto the couch. “Real mature Harry!” He yells, face falling into his palms. He doesn’t want to cry, he doesn’t want to be driven to such an emotional downfall by _Harry Potter_ of all people, but his eyes begin to prickle and before he knows it there are tears tracking down his cheeks. 

Harry Potter feels the same way as he does, but is choosing to ignore it rather than act on it. Draco is certain that there is no escaping this nightmare anymore. All chances of getting back to London are gone with Harry’s rejection, the careful set up has fallen to pieces. They all should have known this wouldn’t work. 

*~*~*~

Draco dreams of Christmas with his mother. He dreams of sitting on a balcony in the Manor, with a tray of tea and cakes. She smiles at him, tells him to get over himself in the politest way possible. She takes his hand in hers, presses her mouth to, and puts it down to pat it. That’s the closest they ever get to affection or reassurance. 

His mother turns away from him to look into the view, the sun high in the sky. There’s snow on the grounds, blanketing the flower beds and grassy hills. Draco hates this place, he can’t believe they were allowed to keep it after the war. The Ministry couldn’t seem to get rid of it fast enough, and were beyond happy to sell it back to the owners they took it off. Draco wishes they hadn’t been. There’s a lot of things he wishes hadn’t been. 

She turns back to look at him, her face haunted. When she smiles though, the look is pushed away. Hidden from him. She’s just as lost as he is, even more so, probably. At least he has his friends, no matter how infrequently they get together these days. It’s better than not having anyone. 

“Christmas cracker, dear?” She asks, trying to ease the tension in the air. 

He loves her, he really does, it’s just _so hard_ to see her. She’s not what she used to be; no longer dazzling and beautiful, full of life and ready to take on anything. She used to run around the house, playing with Draco and treating him like he was her whole world. She was always planning events, meeting up with her friends. The war took all of it. 

“Of course, Mother,” he replies, courteous. She’d taught him that, to never disrespect someone older than him by forgetting basic manners. It’s something so drilled into him, that he doesn’t think about it anymore. It’s probably one of the reasons they’ve drifted apart, a void settled between them by forced niceties and false happiness. 

“Excellent,” she murmurs, reaching across the table to pick up the closest one in the pile. They sit on a platter, lots of them, as if there were going to be more people. 

“Three,” Draco says, beginning to count down. 

“Two,” she returns, a small smile gracing her face, an echo of a real one. 

“One.” They pull at both ends of the gold wrapped cracker, neither putting in much effort. Narcissa doesn’t have any to give, and Draco doesn’t want to beat her. It results in a sad glimpse of what life could have been. 

Draco decides it would be better to just get it over with, and tugs at his end. The cracker splits open, silver and red glitter exploding into the air. The cloud of confetti eventually dissipates, an automatic-vanishing charm woven into the glitter. Once the air is cleared, so to speak, Draco tips the cracker upside down. The little presents inside spill onto the table, and he looks them over. 

There’s a pile of Famous Wizards Chocolate Frogs Cards, a box of Bertie’s, and a dragon figurine. Draco flicks his wand and the blue dragon comes to life, flying circles over their heads. 

“You used to collect these as a child,” his mother says, sorting through the cards. “You had the entire set, if I remember correctly.”

Draco nods, watching the dragon. It reminds him of skating, the way it floats. It also reminds of nights spent curled around Harry. “I had at least two of all of them.”

Narcissa smiles, stacking them neatly and picking up the jelly beans. She opens the box and tips them out, waving her wand over them. About half change colour, lightening into a bright, unmissable orange. She separates them from the others and vanishes them, then selects one of the leftovers at random. 

She hums as she pops a pink one into her mouth. “Fairy floss,” she says, a real smile pulling at her lips. “Take one.”

Draco has never been able to upset his mum, so he does as told. He chooses a turquoise one. Mint spills into his mouth and he hums. “Peppermint.”

Narcissa smiles at Draco, and she swishes her wand again. The jelly beans sort themselves by flavour, and then float back into the box to be eaten later. She points her wand at the dragon figurine, and it drifts slowly into her hand. She sets it down on the table, and when it falls onto its side it’s left there. Draco swallows hard, trying not to read too much into it. 

“Happy Christmas, mum,” Draco says, reaching behind him to pull out the canvas. The white narcissus sparkles in the sunlight, waves of light dancing around it. The deep purple background matches Narcissa’s dress, and she thanks him as he passes it to her. She looks at it, eyes roving over it. 

“I always knew you had an eye, dear. I’ll put it in the corridor.” 

Draco’s heart falls as she places it down. If it’s in the hallway, she’ll never see it again. It’s where she puts all the worthless art she’s given and doesn’t know what to do with. His heart clenches as the canvas falls over, the paint scuffing. 

His mother rushes to pick it up again and prop it against the table this time, and his eyes catch on it. A hole has been ripped through it, the culprit a stray piece of wood on the ground. His work has been ruined, and Narcissa doesn’t even seem to care. 

“Open your eyes, dear,” she is saying now. “The world around us isn’t real anymore. Open your eyes.”

Draco’s heart slows down, and he closes his eyes. When he opens them again, it’s to find himself in a ball on the sofa. He’s in the cottage with Harry, and none of what just happened was real.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, blinking rapidly and trying to dislodge his tears. He swipes at his face, his hand coming back wet. Sighing and pressing into his eyes, he stands up. He’s going to find Harry and go to sleep, wrapped in his arms for warmth. 

Except, no he isn’t. Harry has locked himself in the bedroom, and wants nothing to do with him. Just like his mother doesn’t. No! That was a dream, a figment of his imagination. It’s not to be taken seriously. Not like the way Harry has hung him out to dry, refusing to even look at him. 

Draco sinks back onto the sofa, falling into the cushions. He curls up in a ball, his eyes wide open. It’s hard to swallow so he doesn’t, he just lies there. Draco yawns, his body telling him to go to sleep even as his heart races at the idea. He doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t know what he _can_ do to make it all better. Harry hates him, even as he admitted he loves him. 


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not going to lie, I totally forgot I needed to post this... I’m amazed it took this long to happen, and I was so close to the end, but oh well. Enjoy the chapter (even if it’s nearly 7 hours late)! Xx

**  
**  
[A bunch of mistletoe hanging from the ceiling, wrapped in red ribbon]

**December 20th 2003 - Saturday**

Harry wakes up shivering, blankets pulled all the way up to his chin, but his skin is free of goosebumps. It’s a small relief, but it immediately sets his mood for the rest of the day. If he isn’t as cold as he was when he woke up yesterday, something must have happened. He sits up, stretches and yawns, and pushes the duvet off his shoulders. He swings his legs over the side of the bed and his feet hit the freezing ground. 

Why isn’t _he_ freezing? He’s cold, certainly, but not so desperate for warmth. Harry tries to throw his thoughts back, tries to remember what happened yesterday. Images of Draco sucking his neck and rocking their hips together flash before his mind; Harry’s shower before breakfast that took care of the effect that had on him. Draco coming up to him and saying the Cabinet was a set up, and that it’s working. 

Harry pauses, unable to move. He shakes his head, trying to remove the images flashing behind his eyelids. He remembers agreeing, and then running. Running away, slamming into the bedroom he’s _still_ in. Harry sighs, rubs at the back of his neck. He fucked up yesterday, and something needs to change _today_. He can’t afford to keep dancing around what he’s feeling, not when Draco so obviously feels the same way. 

He finally stands up, and the cold air that he walks through sets goosebumps rising. These ones are real though, created by an actual chill and not a curse. A smile pulls at his lips; maybe this won’t end so badly. Maybe they’ll be able to overcome the curse, and manage to get back to London. He hopes they can. 

Harry shrugs on the red hoodie Draco had taken from him a week ago. It hasn’t been washed, and the smell of Draco is strong. He melts into it and allows himself to be happy for a moment. This isn’t something he normally indulges in, so he breathes in and closes his eyes. Draco would kill him if he saw Harry right now, but the thought only makes Harry happier. His heart stutters and then beats quickly, his chest lighting up. 

After a moment of standing there like a loon, he moves over to the chest of drawers. Draco’s paintings are sitting on one side to dry, and the rest of the surface is taken over by Harry’s report. He’d somehow managed to finish it last night, despite whirling away from Draco like a coward. He sighs, his eyes dropping to the floor. Swallowing, he forces himself to lift his head. What happened can’t be changed, but he can take the initiative to make something of it now. 

He runs his fingers over the pages, feeling the sharp edges of paper dig into his skin. His hands are smooth these days, the callouses he used to have fading away over time with the lack of quidditch. Most of his exercise these days is focused on his body, none of it requiring any equipment. Running, push ups, sit ups, planks, burpees, squats. Occasionally he does some weight lifting and chin ups, but that’s only really when the utilities are available. 

His eyes scan over the paper, looking at the copies of mind maps and lists, roving over photographs he’d pulled from his memory. They’d be clearer with a pensieve available, but even without one he’d managed to pull a single instant from his mind and transfer it to the paper. Pictures of the cottage, the forest, both villages and courtyards, the hole Draco fell into. They’re all over the paper, filling in gaps of writing and making the report look much more official. 

It makes his heart race in happiness that he can still do this; that even with the rug pulled from beneath his feet, he can still write up a Senior Auror-worthy report. Harry smiles and moves away, forcing himself to get on with it. He needs to shower, make breakfast, apologise to Draco, and focus a lot more on getting out of here. 

It was a week ago they’d discovered the drawer cut into the Vanishing Cabinet, that they’d figured out they might be able to call the magic back with a set of items. He isn’t sure what exactly that means, but he knows Draco does. They need to be on the same page, and they need to work together. 

Even with everything clicking into place rather neatly, there’s still something bothering him. It tugs at his mind and heart, but he can’t seem to work out what it is. Deciding to come back to it later, he picks out some clean clothes and makes his way to the bathroom for another long shower. 

*~*~*~

“Good morning.” 

Harry turns into the living room to find Draco lying on the couch, his face pressed into the pillow and the blankets down at his waist. His shirt has ridden up over night, a sliver of his bare stomach exposed to the room, and Harry’s eyes stray to it. 

“‘Morning,” Harry replies, rubbing his wet hair with the towel again. No matter how many times he seems to stop the dripping, it always starts back up again. His neck has tracks of water running down it, smelling faintly like mint from his shampoo. 

“What are you doing up so early?” Draco asks, turning his head the slightest bit off the pillow to look at him. 

Harry laughs and walks over to him, falling to his knees so they’re at eye level. “It’s not _that_ early,” he says. “Besides, you know I can’t sleep in.”

“Why’d you let _me_ sleep in then? We could be working.” Draco blinks, his hair falling into his eyes, but makes no move to get up. 

“It’s Saturday, and if you weren’t here you’d be sleeping in.”

“Monday is my day off…” Draco replies, a murmur rough with sleep. 

Harry nods. Draco is really cute when he’s half asleep, and Harry wishes he could see it more often. “Yes it is. But you start later on the weekends.”

“Oh yeah…” 

Harry shakes his head, hiding a smile and standing up. “Do you want coffee? Or would you prefer sleeping a bit longer?”

“Sleep,” Draco mumbles, face already turning away. 

Harry hums his response and walks over to the kitchen. He isn’t sure what he wants for breakfast, just that he wants it quickly. His eyes rove over the contents of the fridge and pantry. There’s not much there, and Harry finds himself wishing for Molly’s cooking. He craves something homemade by someone other than him, and even though Draco is cooking too, it’s not quite the same as a Weasley meal. 

He eventually decides on a simple fruit salad and some buttered toast, knowing that if Draco _actually_ wakes up anytime soon he’ll pick off Harry’s plate. Harry wants to slap the man over the head, but he also wants to pull him close and hold him still. It’s complicated, but nothing between them has ever been simple. He pulls the ingredients out, puts the bread into the Muggle toaster, and cuts the fruit into pieces. 

Harry piles it all onto a platter, arranging it into colour order, and carries it over to the tiny dining table. It’s still in a rather weird position, squished into the side of the kitchen, but it’s kind of grown on him. The odd little table pushed away but still used. It reminds him a bit of himself when he was younger: pushed to the side and hated, until actually finding a use and a reason for being there. It’s dark, yeah, but it was his life. 

He plucks a grape off the vine and pops it into his mouth. It bursts with juice, crisp and sharp. Harry smiles at the simplicity of it, and eats another. He wants to talk to Draco, is itching to get back to London, but it can wait. A part of himself is also aware that once they leave, whatever is between him and Draco will probably vanish as well, fizzing out into nothing over time. He doesn’t want that to happen, he actually wants Draco around now. He can’t believe he thinks that, but it’s true. Draco is an amazing person, clever, witty, quick on the uptake. Gorgeous, funny, sarcastic. Everything Harry craves for in a person. The irony of those traits belonging to his old school rival isn’t lost on him either. 

All he needs to do now is wait for Draco to wake up and have a really strong coffee, and then they can put their heads together, so to speak. A picture of _different_ heads pushed together makes Harry suck in a breath, but he refuses to think on it further. Thoughts like that don’t belong at the dining table with the other person asleep on the couch. He needs to concentrate on his food, not on his other… needs. 

*~*~*~

Draco wakes up again a little later, his head raising off the pillow before flopping back down with a groan. Harry’s eyes slide across the living room to look at him, and his heart stops. Pale blond hair is mussed, falling into grey eyes. Red lines from his clothes and the couch cut across his porcelain skin, his eyes blinking in the bright light of the morning. 

“Harry?” He murmurs, voice quiet and rough with sleep. 

Harry’s heart stops, his chest bursting with fireworks at his first name falling off Draco’s lips. “Good morning, again,” Harry says with a chuckle. 

Draco just groans, pulling himself up from the couch nevertheless. “Food? _Coffee_?”

Harry bites his lip, a fond laugh trying to escape. He may be confident in his emotions now, but Draco doesn’t need to see him with hearts in his eyes just yet. “Coffee is under a _stasis_ in the kitchen. Food is a fruit salad with toast, same as mine was.”

Draco moans at that, pulling the blankets off himself and standing. He stretches his arms above his head, his shirt riding up even more. Harry’s eyes fall to the trail of blond hair leading down from his belly button into his pyjama bottoms. He _aches_ to touch, _aches_ to hold and smooth over and kiss. And he will, one day—hopefully. 

Draco pads over to the kitchen—leaving Harry behind on the couch—and immediately takes the mug of coffee into his hands. Harry watches as he takes a sip, doesn’t burn his mouth like Harry always does, and steals a grape from the vine. He picks up the platter after spreading butter over the toast, carrying it over to the couch and sitting down. He’s much closer than necessary, his skin warm and inviting. Harry chews the inside of his mouth, restraining himself. He won’t touch Draco right now, not without them talking. 

“What do you want to do today?” Harry asks Draco, placing his book face down to hold his page. It’s the book he kept spilling things on and trying desperately to fix, and it’s not even that good. Not worth the struggle, even if the concept was good. 

Draco hums, sipping his coffee again. “Dunno.”

Harry’s eyebrows lift, nearly receding into his hairline. “Since when do you speak like _that_?”

“I’ve clearly spent too much time with you,” Draco replies, passing the blame off to Harry effortlessly. 

Harry shakes his head with an affectionate smile on his lips. “I wanted to talk to you, actually.”

Draco bites into his toast. “Congratulations then, mission accomplished.”

“Ha ha,” Harry deadpans. 

Draco swallows his mouthful, Harry’s eyes tracking the motion of his throat, and turns to face him. “What about, then?”

“The drawer cut into the back of the Vanishing Cabinet.”

“Ah.” 

Harry nods and watches as Draco puts the mug down on the coffee table he’d transfigured all those days ago. Draco runs a hand through his hair, pushing it back and off his face. “What about it?” He asks, visibly set off-kilter by Harry’s question. 

“You said we might be able to call the magic back with some items, or something? Do you still think that would work?”

Draco nods, his face closing off and morphing into the mask he wears while working. “It should, yes, although I can’t confirm anything without trying.”

“Of course,” Harry agrees easily, shifting forward. “How does it work? In theory.”

Draco breathes out a long breath. “It’s complicated.”

“I want to know what I’m relying on to get back to London.”

Draco nods. His lips quirk to the side in a sad smile. “Vanishing Cabinets work on magic, naturally. Without it, they aren’t able to send things back and forth. What isn’t as obvious though, is that the items or people are sent along a series of magic strings. If the strings snap, nothing can be transported. If someone who knows what they’re doing—someone like me, or maybe a Curse Breaker—they can loop them back together again.” 

Harry nods, transfixed on what Draco is saying. 

“This Cabinet though, has lost all traces of magic. There isn’t anything to loop back together. I need to find a way to call the magic back, which can sometimes be done with the help of certain items chosen by whoever destroyed the magic.”

“Wait,” Harry interrupts. “The Cabinet couldn’t just lose its magic by itself?”

Draco shakes his head. “No. Someone has to have removed it.”

Harry sighs. “The lengths our bloody friends went to…”

“Yep,” Draco says, a melancholy mix of happiness and annoyance. “Anyway, the items hold the essence of the magic within them. If I string _them_ together and put them in the Cabinet, the magic should expand and fill the space. The Cabinet should absorb the magic and work again, basically.”

Nodding thoughtfully, Harry runs his teeth over his nails. Not biting them, just feeling the hard surface under his teeth. It’s something he does occasionally while deep in thought, so he doesn’t notice Draco’s eyes trained on the movement until he blinks. Draco flushes and looks away. 

“This isn’t at all impossible,” Harry huffs sarcastically. “How the hell do we figure out what the items are?”

Draco shrugs, wrapping his hands back around his mug of coffee. “Well, we already have some idea, don’t we?”

Harry’s eyebrows furrow, pulling down over his eyes. “Do we?” His heart flutters at the collective pronoun, but he tries to push it aside. 

“The cotton? The leather?” Draco asks, pointing to where the fabrics are placed on a side table. 

Harry’s eyes widen. He hadn’t thought of that at all, but it makes so much sense! “Could it be just those? Or would there need to be something else as well?”

“I think there has to be a third thing, it’s too simple otherwise.” Draco chews his bottom lip, and Harry has to tear his eyes away from it. 

Harry nods. “That makes sense. I don’t know what else there could be though… We’ll have to think on it.”

Draco agrees, taking a slice of apple, and Harry picks up his book again. There’s no use worrying about it now, it’s too early to go outside and the ground is still mushy from overnight rain. Something still tugs at Harry though, and he can’t seem to dislodge the idea that he’s forgetting something. 

*~*~*~

He figures it out at lunch. If his friends are to blame for this entire situation, why was a trap set for Draco? It doesn’t make sense to put him in danger if there aren’t any malicious intentions behind the circumstances. 

Harry heaves a sigh and sits up, swinging his feet onto the warm floor. The sun is beaming through the windows and casting golden light into the living room. Draco is reading over the reports Harry wrote up last night, and Harry is trying to do anything other than watch him. He’s still uncomfortable with where they left things off yesterday, awkward with how exposed he is now. Draco knows how he feels, has to have read between the lines and pulled out the obvious answer. It doesn’t help him _any_ to know that his feelings are reciprocated, just makes it even more uncomfortable. He doesn’t know how he’s supposed to act. 

He takes a deep breath, holds it for a count of four just as Hermione taught him, and expels it slowly. He gathers his courage and turns his entire body towards Draco. 

“Hey Malfoy?” Harry asks, hoping his voice sounds more confident than he feels. 

“Potter?” He tries not to let the disappointment of Draco using his surname show on his face. 

“I’ve been thinking…”

“Don’t hurt yourself,” Draco mutters, not looking up from the papers. 

“No seriously.” 

Draco sighs, places his finger over the part he’s up to, and turns to look at Harry properly. The sunlight hits his hair and it shines beautifully, and Harry has to tear his eyes away from it in order to focus. “What have you been thinking about?”

“If it was my friends and Robards behind this, why would they set a trap for you? Why would there be a hole with a core identifier, purely for you to fall down?”

Draco huffs, blowing his hair out of his eyes and watching helplessly as it floats back down into the same place. “ _Please_. It’s probably _my_ friends behind it. Pansy has this thing where she thinks danger brings out emotions faster and what not. I don’t think it makes much sense, but there was something about desperat—” Draco cuts off, hiding his face in his hands. “Sorry, I’m rambling.”

Harry nods, tongue darting out to lick his dry lips. “It’s okay. That actually makes a lot of sense…” 

Draco smiles at him shyly, dropping his eyes back to Harry’s report. “This is really good. It sums everything up really nicely.”

“That’s the point,” Harry laughs softly. “How do you feel about it?”

“About what?”

“About this,” Harry gestures vaguely. “Our situation.”

Draco opens his mouth, and then snaps it shut. A smirk forces its way onto his face, and he grins as he says: “I’ve… _warmed up to it_ since the beginning of December.”

Harry’s heart stutters, his chest exploding with happiness. He snorts at Draco’s awful joke and stands up, making his way towards him. Draco does the same, rising to his feet and forgetting the report he’s halfway through reading. Harry isn’t sure what’s happening, just that Draco is like a magnet and he _needs_ to be closer. 

Draco is staring at him, his eyes wide and dark, his lips parted slightly. Harry licks his own, clenches his hands into fists. He stops just before Draco, leaving barely a foot of distance between them. 

“I have too,” he murmurs, terrified about what’s happening but leaping in anyway. 

Draco exhales a shaky breath and steps forward again, his chest colliding with Harry’s and sending sparks up his skin. Harry swallows hard, his hands coming up to reach for Draco.

His fingers trail over the skin on Draco’s shoulders, wrapping around to his neck. Draco groans, his head dropping to Harry’s shoulder. Harry smiles softly, his vision focusing in on Draco and blocking everything else out. Draco’s head snaps up when Harry’s hand curls around the back of his neck. He gazes at Harry, eyes dark with lust and want. It snaps Harry’s restraint, and he closes the gap between them. 

His lips meet Draco’s and it feels like fire. It feels like his skin has been set alight with fireworks and sparks. His lips tingle, his hands pushing into soft hair. It’s also water though. It’s drinking when starched, diving into the ocean on a summer day. It’s a scalding hot shower with hands slipping over skin. Draco moans under his mouth, and Harry slips his tongue between his lips. 

Draco groans even louder, his hands clawing at Harry’s back and nails digging into his skin. Their lips brush, slow and steady but also fast and all-consuming. Harry pulls Draco closer, not wanting anything between them. He breathes him in, pulling away to rest their foreheads together. Draco pants, his eyes overridden with black and the silver al but swallowed. 

“Wow,” he murmurs, not taking his eyes away from Harry’s. 

“Wow indeed,” Harry replies, tilting his head forward to capture his lips again in a chaste kiss. 

Draco tips his head back, encouraging Harry to lean even closer and nip his neck. Draco moans at Harry’s teeth on his throat, his eyes fluttering open. He freezes, all motion halted. “Harry.”

Harry hums. “Say that again,” he mutters, sucking on Draco’s throat. He wants to leave marks, wants to show everyone who Draco belongs to. 

“No, _Harry_ , look up.” 

Draco pushes at his shoulders, and Harry takes a reluctant step back. He looks up at the ceiling, and wants to throw something at it. 

“Fucking cottage.”

He watches as the mistletoe keeps growing, protruding from the ceiling with a red ribbon tied around it. 

“Who do you think was behind this, huh?” He asks, pulling Draco back into him.

“Definitely Pansy. Or maybe Theo…” Draco says, kissing Harry again. 

Harry moans, his hands tangling back into his hair. “I don’t want to stop kissing you.”

“Then don’t,” Draco murmurs, eyes closing again and pressing his mouth back to Harry’s. 

*~*~*~

By the time dinner rolls around, they’ve achieved nothing else. Harry spent the entire afternoon with Draco on his lap, snogging him senseless. He wouldn’t have preferred any other way of spending the afternoon, even if the day is now completely wasted. 

“Hey Harry?” Draco asks, pulling away from him. Draco’s lips are red and swollen, wet and bruised with kissing. “Do you think we could share the bed tonight?”

Harry laughs, his heart flying each time Draco uses his given name. He wants to, he really does. He’d love to wake up pressed against Draco, slotted together. But it’s… it’s a bit early. They’ve only just confessed their feelings, and yes they’ve spent all day snogging, but Harry wants to separate things just a little bit. “Not tonight Draco,” he says, explaining his reasoning. 

Draco looks a bit disappointed, but he seems to shake it off. He presses himself back into Harry, melting into him. Harry’s hands rub up and down his back, his nails trailing over his skin gently and making him shiver. 

They stay like that for another half hour, but then Harry’s legs go numb and he can no longer feel his hands. He pushes Draco off him, grumbling, and stands up. He stretches, shaking his legs and arms out. Draco mumbles something Harry doesn’t catch, and when he faces him again he finds his eyes glued to Harry’s stomach. 

“What?” He asks, eyes darkening again at Draco’s obvious approval. 

“You’re bloody gorgeous,” Draco says, hands lifting as if to touch. 

Harry steps back, shaking his head at him but softening it with a smile. “Not today, Draco.”

“Tomorrow?” Draco pleads, his lips pushing into a pout.

Harry snorts. “You’re insistent, aren’t you?” 

“Answer my question,” Draco snarls, eyes flicking back down over Harry’s body and resting at his belt. 

“Maybe the day after.”

“Two days?!” Draco says. “How am I meant to last two days?”

“The same way you waited to _kiss_ me,” Harry says, eyebrow lifting. “I don’t want to move that quickly, and I’d like there to be some transition period.”

Draco sighs but nods, smiling again. “Okay. But only if I get the bed tonight!”

“It’s your turn anyway,” Harry says, rolling his eyes. He can’t believe he’s stuck with this insufferable idiot. He thinks he might die from how happy he is. 

Draco huffs but kisses him again, wrapping his arms around his waist. He tucks his head into his shoulder, and Harry smiles into the top of his head. The mistletoe above them keeps growing, a cloud of green forming above them. It’s beautiful if not typical, but he loves it anyway. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the short chapter, hope the content made up for it 😉😏


	21. Chapter 21

****

[A glass angel sculpture hanging over a city street at night] 

**********December 21st 2003 - Sunday**

Draco wakes up warm, the duvet on the bed drooping down at his waist. He settles into the covers further, getting comfortable. Light streams in through the bedroom window, bathing him in gold. Purple and red swirl together behind his eyelids, and he sighs in the warmth. 

He bolts up, confusion and unease washing over him. He should be shivering. His skin should be burning with goosebumps, his fingers tingling as they go numb. Draco snaps his eyes open, wincing as the sunlight temporarily blinds him. This isn’t right. Something must be wrong. Something must have happen—

Memories of yesterday rush over him, images of Harry kissing him. Of mistletoe growing over their heads and a laugh bubbling from his lips. His lips that were just on Harry’s. He’d felt alive with it, like a bolt of electricity had coursed its way through his body. Draco had never felt anything like it before. Had never felt so caught up in something. Harry had felt like a live wire, like something untameable. It had been glorious, and Draco had never wanted it to stop. 

He lies back down, falling onto the pillows and sighing with happiness. His heart feels like he’s running a marathon, like he’s been racing away from something all his life and he’s only just starting to slow down. Draco bites his lip, sinking his teeth into the tender skin. It aches, probably bruised over with snogging. He’d sat himself down in Harry’s lap for hours, had refused to move for anything. But then Harry had pushed him off, told him he wanted some separation in their relationship before going any further. 

Draco can understand that, can accept it. That doesn’t mean he likes it though. Pictures flash in his mind’s eye of Harry on top of him, pressing him down into the bed. Kissing his way across his jaw and down his throat, nipping his collarbone and moving further down. Draco’s hand starts following the track, pulling goosebumps to his skin from pleasure. 

He forces himself to stop. He doesn’t want to start his day like this, not when Harry is one single corridor away. Not when he could so easily walk down the hallway and wake him up with his embrace. Draco smiles to himself and gets out of bed, the blankets falling easily from his hips. He feels delirious, like his mind has gone off the rails. He feels sappy, like a character in one of his books. He doesn’t like it, he likes being in control. That’s one of the reasons he became an Unspeakable; it was something that used his brain and not the creative part that he indulges in for fun. 

With that thought clear in his head, he pulls himself to his feet. He picks out a couple of clothes—sky blue trousers and a white button up—and makes his way into the bathroom. The floor is cold under his feet, but it doesn’t inspire the same reaction it had two days ago. His breath doesn’t puff out in a cloud, his legs don’t slowly become numb. Draco can take his time without worrying about literally freezing. Harry kissing him must have broken the curse, like a bloody Muggle fairytale. 

Draco smiles to himself as he makes his way into the bathroom, stripping and turning the shower on. He makes the water boiling hot before stepping under the spray, ducking his head under it and letting it wash down his neck. 

*~*~*~

The smell of cooking toast greets Draco as he leaves the bathroom, and his heart sinks with the realisation that Harry is already awake. He’d wanted to wake him up himself, hopefully with kisses to the forehead. It picks back up again though when he realises toast means _coffee._ He races back to the bedroom to throw his pyjamas onto the bed, and then runs towards the kitchen. 

Harry is standing by the toaster, a mug of coffee sitting on the counter next to him. Draco grins and walks up to him, looping his arms around Harry’s waist from behind. 

“Good morning to you too,” Harry says as Draco nuzzles into his neck. 

Draco hums, turning his head so he can press his lips to it. Then he steps back, reaching for his coffee, and takes a sip. It’s perfect, the right temperature, utterly delicious. He drinks some more of it, Harry’s eyes on him all the while. 

“Good?”

“Amazing,” Draco says. 

Harry beams at him before turning back just in time for the toast to pop. He’s using a Muggle toaster, slower than magic, but it works just as well. If Draco’s being honest, he prefers it anyway. Magic always makes the bread taste odd. 

Harry places the toast onto a platter, making a stack of it. He adds different jams and spreads, a couple of knives, and then carries it to the table. Draco picks up his coffee, pours Harry a glass of water, and follows him.

He places the cups down, listening to the clink of Harry’s glass hitting the wood. Harry slides over to him, pulling him against him. Draco chuckles as Harry presses his lips to his forehead. 

“Look who’s the sappy emotional one now, hmm?” Draco murmurs, leaning into the touch. 

‘Ha ha,” Harry says, rolling his eyes and pulling away. “What do you want to do today? I thought we could go Christmas shopping in the village, and then try to figure out what the items we need for the Cabinet are.”

Draco hums, taking a bite into his toast. It crunches, sharp and sweet with strawberry jam. “Yeah, that sounds good. I’d like a few hours to work on my paintings first though.”

Harry nods, drinking from his glass. “I think I can manage that.”

Draco smiles at him, trying to hide some of his fondness. If Harry knew just how smitten he is, he’d laugh at him until he passed out. Well, probably not, but it’s the principle of the matter.

He finishes his toast, kisses Harry gently, and then races off to brush his teeth. He needs to finish his painting for Theo, needs to wind the magic through it and make it glimmer. Then he wants to finalise the one for himself, and since Harry’s found out he’s been painting, he might as well make one for Harry too. It’s the nice thing to do, isn’t it? If he gives everyone he’s close to a piece of art, he should give one to Harry too. Unless he’s overthinking everything, and it would be weird. 

Draco sighs as he picks up his canvases and sets his materials floating behind him. He’s being ridiculous. They haven’t even fucked yet, so Harry isn’t keeping him around for that. It’s pure emotion, not sex. He needs to remind himself, this is not like his short lived relationships of the past years. This isn’t based on fucking, on pushing aside emotions. This will last. It burns like a candle, relaxing him and keeping him steady. He needs to indulge in it, and learn that it’s okay to want it. 

He makes his way outside, glancing at Harry as he warms up for exercise. His shirt is off, and Draco’s eyes rake over his exposed chest. It’s so muscly, defined in a way Draco’s could never be. When did he get so gorgeous? How did Draco get so lucky? He pulls the door open and settles a few metres away. His first canvas floats before him, slowly stabilising in the air as if on an easel. The paints, water, brushes, and palette sit on the ground next to him. 

The bright pink azaleas for Theo look beautiful, the colours melding together and looking stunningly realistic. He’s proud of it, really proud of it. It’s one of the best works he’s done, up there along with the narcissus for his mother. Being trapped in a cottage with Harry bloody Potter has apparently helped his creativity flourish. He hopes Pansy and Blaise appreciate theirs too; even if they aren’t in his top five, they are still really quite good. If he can say so himself. 

He pulls his wand out of its holster—which he found on the floor in the bedroom, underneath his _own_ clothes—and points it at the canvas. What can he do to make it even better? The others he’s done in the past have golden lines, shining and twinkling like stars. Theo’s doesn’t quite fit the same, the gold would upset the delicate colouring. No, he’ll need to do something different for this one. 

Silver? Silver always looks good with pink. He could also try out purple and blue, make it resemble the bisexual flag? Theo is bi after all, he might like that. Draco thinks that’s a good idea, nodding to himself. If it goes sideways he can always just unravel the magic and start again. 

He lifts his wand once more, pointing it at a white corner. Draco flicks it sharply, a tiny purple star appearing. He curves the lines of magic, expanding the star until it fills the corner. Then, he twists it into knots, fixing it in place while making it glow. He rocks back onto his heels, examining it. With a thoughtful glance, he changes the colour slightly, making it more blue. 

“There we go,” he murmurs. 

Draco directs his wand to a spot a bit to the right, beginning to create a blue moon imprint.

An hour or so later, Draco swaps Theo’s canvas out for a new one. He wants to create something for Harry so he can remember everything once they manage to get back. Draco’s sure they won’t be here much longer, and he wants to make sure he gets this done. He picks up one of his pencils and starts sketching an outline, straight lines rising up the canvas. 

Draco wants it to serve as a reminder, a happy one. He doesn’t want Harry to look back and see the negatives. So he draws the cottage. First the walls, stretching up the left edge and cutting across the bottom, reaching into the middle of the canvas. Then the roof, swooping lines with snow and trees in front of it. He sketches in bushes and windows, wood and doors filling it in further. Draco hums as he does it, pleased he’s finding a way to set this originally awful situation in a good light. 

A lot of things have happened in these three weeks, and not all of them have been bad. He’s become much closer to Harry than he ever thought possible. They went to school together, worked together for three years, and throughout the entire time, he’s never spoken to Harry as much as he is now. No, now he can kiss him. Embrace him, cook for him, wrap his arms around his neck. Eventually, he’ll be able to sleep next to him, be able to wake up with him. He’s never been happier, and hopefully Harry feels the same way. 

A knock from the inside of the cottage startles Draco, and he drops the pencil. Harry’s head pokes through the door, and Draco moves so his body is blocking the canvas. The last thing he needs is Harry getting a sneak peek. 

“Let’s go shopping,” he says. Sweat drips down his forehead, his hair mussed and dirty. 

“Maybe you should take a shower first. You look like a wreck,” Draco says, standing up and running his hands through his own hair. 

Harry shrugs. He pulls out his wand and casts a cleaning charm, his skin clearing and the sweat evaporating instantly. 

“Come _on_ ,” Harry whines, his hands reaching up to hold onto his shoulders. His fingers rub circles into his skin, comforting. “Christmas is in a couple of days, and since I’ve been trapped _here_ ,” he gestures around at the cottage and forest, “I haven’t gotten any shopping done. ‘Mione will kill me!”

Draco sighs but nods, a smile appearing on his face. “I guess I could do some shopping too,” he mumbles. 

Harry cheers and races back inside, grabbing a coat. Draco rolls his eyes at him, tells him to wait while he puts his things away, and floats the paints into the cottage. The brushes and palette clean automatically, the water evaporating from the glass. His paintings turn around so Harry can’t see them, and they float down the corridor into the bedroom. 

*~*~*~

The village is bustling today as always, the Sunday warmth calling out the crowds. The sky is clear, a pale blue matching Draco’s trousers. Harry holds his hand as they approach the courtyard, the water fountain bright and clean. People sit on the edge, milling around and talking. As they come closer, Draco can see people in every shop. Most of them are carrying bags lined up and down their arms, straining to hold them all. 

“Woah,” Harry says, falling to stop. “Look.”

He lifts their joined hands and gestures over the main walkway, where the most people are crowded. Draco follows his gaze and sees something floating above the path, reflecting the light back at him. 

“What is it?” He breathes, captivated by what must be glass. 

“I’m not sure,” Harry murmurs back. He leaves in a jog, pulling Draco along with him. Together they approach the crowd, pushing through the people and looking up above them. 

It _is_ glass. A hell of a lot of it, too. There’s an angel rising above the path, glass shards connecting and entwining. It’s gorgeous, and Draco’s jaw drops as he looks at it. Glass stretches out from the sculpture on fabric, connecting it to the buildings below. They look like silken capes, joining the roofs and tying the angel down. It’s majestic, and Draco has never seen anything like it. 

Harry’s hand tightens around his, pulling him close. Draco smiles at the casual touch they hadn’t allowed themselves until yesterday. He can’t remember the last time someone was so comfortable with him, the last time someone sought out his skin. 

The angel glitters in the sunlight, gold reflecting and fracturing onto the ground. The pathway looks like someone held sequins to the sun, and Draco never wants to leave. He knows he has to though, that eventually he’ll have to move on and whoever put the statue up will take it down anyway. It’s just so beautiful. 

“Your eyes reflect it, you know,” Harry murmurs into his ear. “The silver is reflecting the light.”

Draco feels his cheeks warm at that. Harry must be looking really closely to be able to tell that. He tries to turn away, making a beeline for the jeweller. His mum would love a new pair of earrings. 

“Are we leaving?” Harry asks, running to catch up with him. 

Draco smiles sheepishly. “Sorry, I couldn’t take it any longer.”

“Take what?” Harry asks, concern shifting over his features. “Did I do something wrong?”

Draco’s eyes widen, his head shaking. “No! No, it’s just…”

“Crowds?” Harry asks, nodding out to the amount of people standing around. 

Draco nods slightly, taking the easy way out. Harry doesn’t need to know his embarrassment at being stared at, or his way of thinking ahead and ruining things for himself. Those can be revealed in time. 

“Let’s go then,” Harry says, grinning at him. “I need to buy a ton of presents today!”

Draco laughs with him, following his lead as he walks them down the path. He’s unsure as they turn to separate, not knowing if he should buy Harry something. He _is_ already painting him a detailed landscape, is it necessary to buy something too? Draco sighs. 

“Should I…” Harry begins, chewing his lip. 

“Should you what?” Draco asks, turning his attention to him only to find Harry already looking at him. 

“Should I buy you something?” 

Draco’s breath catches. “I was just wondering the same thing!” He laughs. 

Harry shakes his head with a chuckle. “Yeah?” He sounds ridiculously fond, and Draco grins at him. “Let’s. I want to get something for you.”

Draco nods readily. “Mine is gonna be better than yours,” he says with a confident sneer. 

Harry’s eyebrows rise up his forehead. “A competition? Well, _Malfoy_ , I think you’ll find my gifts are superior!”

Draco shakes his head. “Not a chance, _Potter_.”

With one last, quick kiss, Harry tears off in the other direction. He throws a glance over his shoulder to look at Draco, winks, and continues running. 

*~*~*~

The jeweller is truly beautiful, Draco thinks as he meanders through it. His mother would like any number of these things, but he doesn’t think any of them are quite right. He knows he wants something meaningful, something she can wear and think of him. She deserves that after the shit storm her life became during the war. 

His eyes shift over necklaces and bracelets, rings and earrings. There is silver, gold, bronze, rose gold, diamond, emerald, sapphire, and thousands of other materials. There are hearts, stars, trees, jewels, stones. It messes with his head, blurring them together until all he sees is _jewellery._ He needs to snap out of the daze and pull them apart, needs to inspect individual items. He also needs to make sure everything stays within a budget, otherwise he’ll have to lessen the amount he spends on the other presents. Pansy would not be happy if he spent five Muggle pounds on her and a thousand on his mother. 

He notices a beautiful set of earrings in the display case under the counter; silver and blue swirling together in beautiful waves. They’re reminiscent of the beach, soothing and gentle. His mother would love them. She’d love anything shiny and expensive though, and he’s not quite sure they’re right. There’s no charm to them, nothing to make them memorable. He needs them to make her day, to be one of the best presents this year. 

A set of red earrings a few places down are lovely, resembling fire dripping from silver. They’re stunning, definitely a statement. Draco runs his fingers over the glass, staring at them and imagining them on her. She’d look beautiful, the red complementing her skin tone and hair nicely. 

“Good afternoon sir,” the man behind the counter says as he approaches Draco. “Can I help you in any way?”

Draco nods, pointing out the earrings. “I’m thinking of these ones for my mother. What do you think?”

The man looks down at the jewellery, then back up to Draco. “Does she look like you?”

“Very much so.”

“They’d be lovely,” he says. “Very charming.”

Draco nods, lost in thought. “How much are they?” He asks after another moment of contemplation. 

“£299, sir.”

Draco just nods again. He was preparing to spend £300 on her, so it’s just in budget. He may not be as rich as he once was, but he’s been saving all year to buy her—and the rest of his friends—something special. 

“I’ll take them,” he says, lifting his eyes to look at the man. 

He smiles at him, pulling out a key and unlocking the cabinet. The earrings lift easily in their box, sliding out of the glass. The man finds a lid for the box, tucks them into a small bag, and presents Draco with a receipt he needs to sign off on. Draco takes the pen from him, writes down his Muggle signature, and hands the cash over. The man’s eyes widen at the use of fifty pound notes, but doesn’t say anything as he puts them into the till. 

“Have a good day, sir,” he tells Draco as he turns to help someone else out. 

Draco nods his thanks and leaves the shop. 

Now he needs to get things for his friends. He ducks around a corner into an alley, shrinks the bag so it can fit easily in his pocket, and then rejoins the crowds seamlessly. Years of living in Muggle London have come in handy, apparently. 

He has no idea what to get his friends. Something small, since they’re already getting a painting each. His mind flickers over the stores, thinking of the bookshop. Theo’s reading has drastically increased this year, so maybe Draco could get him a book? That’s not a bad idea. He could get Pansy something to relax with? Maybe some things for the bath? She has been very tense and wired these last few months. Some bath bombs and scented soaps might be appreciated. 

Blaise is a bit more challenging. All he’s really done this year is work on his physical strength, trying to improve his body and magic skills to ‘impress potential dates’. Draco isn’t quite sure he believes the motive behind it, but the point is that it’s happening. He isn’t sure any of these shops sell gym equipment though, and even if they _did_ Draco wouldn’t know where to start. He sighs. He should also get something for Alex, although that will be harder than shopping for Blaise. Maybe he’ll wait until he’s back in London, he doesn’t know when he’ll see him again anyway.

Draco reaches into his pocket, thumbs the edge of the bag for his mother, and decides to start with Theo and Pansy. He makes his way to the bookstore, pushing through the crowds. The old man working recognises Draco and makes his way towards him, a beam splitting his face open. 

“Good afternoon young sir!” He greets, rushing to shake Draco’s hand. 

Draco smiles, slightly uneasy but careful to be polite regardless. 

“Are you after more of your _special_ books?” He asks, dropping his voice. 

Draco shakes his head slowly. “Not today, I’m afraid,” he says. The man looks slightly sad about that, but perks back up when Draco starts talking again. “I’m actually shopping for a friend. He’s been getting really into reading lately, but I don’t know what to get him.”

“ _Friend_? The same _friend_ you were here with earlier?” His eyebrows raise and waggle at him. Draco wants to hit him, but he looks so nice and not at all rude, so he doesn’t. 

He forces a laugh instead. “No, a different guy.”

The man nods, thoughtful. “What does he like?”

Ten minutes later, Draco is walking out of the bookshop with a bag weighed down by books. He’d bought three, each about a different topic. The first is one on cooking, since Theo has been getting into that recently too—something about needing to be an actual _adult_ and stop surviving on take away. The second is on gardening, a subtle hint that he needs to get his act together and stop killing his plants. Honestly, how bad does he have to be to kill a bloody succulent! The last book is fiction, a story about a man not knowing where he’s going in life and relying on his girlfriend to get through. It’s cliche, but Draco thinks Theo will like it. 

With that done, Draco walks around and looks for somewhere to buy bath things from. He passes the butcher, the baker, a home decorations shop that he doesn’t remember seeing before, and lots more. None of them will sell anything close to what he’s after. As he passes the grocer, he thinks ‘what the hell’ and turns into it. It was full of things last time he went shopping, so he might have some luck here. If not, it’s back to the drawing board for Pansy. 

Thankfully, when he looks around and wanders to the back of the store, he finds a rather large cosmetics and bathing section. Draco relaxes slightly as he walks through the aisle, taking in the colours and bright smiles of the models. One thing Draco has never understood about Muggles, is the way they cling to unrealistic beauty standards. No one’s teeth are _that_ white, no one’s skin _that_ clear. At least wix have more common sense, and while they appreciate beauty, most of them don’t make it their entire focus in life. 

The models are all half naked women, the majority of them pale and blond. Draco scowls at that. There isn’t enough diversity in marketing, and the women definitely shouldn’t be in their underwear to advertise mascara. It just doesn’t make sense. 

He pushes the thoughts away. He doesn’t need to rant to himself when there’s nothing he can do to change it. No, all he needs to do is pick out some pretty and perfumed items for Pansy. 

Draco gazes around the aisle, eyes bouncing from product to product. There are pink bath bombs, blue ones, green ones, _gold_ ones. There are some shaped like hearts or teddy bears, meant to be endearing. There’s no way in hell he’s buying those for her. He moves slowly down the shelving, eventually coming across the multicoloured ones. The bath bomb directly in front of him has swirls of blue, green, and purple, lines of silver streaking through it. When he picks it up and smells it, he discovers it’s scented like champagne and strawberries. Pansy would love it. 

Smiling to himself, Draco puts it into a basket he’d picked up at the beginning, careful not to damage it. He’d like a second bath bomb before moving onto the body washes and soaps, so he keeps looking. 

By the time he’s finished, the basket is quite full. It’s more than he was expecting, but she won’t be complaining. Aside from the first bath bomb, there is: a pink, white, and orange one that smells like roses—he thought he _had_ to get it because of the colours; a bottle of oatmeal all-natural body wash; a turquoise bar of soap in the shape of a wave; and a bottle of moisturiser with cocoa butter in it. Pansy talks his ears off about how good it is for her skin, so he didn’t think he could pass it up. 

Thankfully, his cashier is _not_ the girl Harry and he had last time—he’s not sure he could take her suspicious and judgmental gaze again. This time it’s an older woman, dyed black hair short and tidy. She’s methodical as she packs the bags, not commenting on the items at all. She’s polite, fast, and very competent. As Draco takes his bags, he drops a £2 coin into the tip jar. She beams at him in thanks, and he closes the door with an answering nod. 

His mother, Pansy, and Theo are all accounted for now. He only needs things for Blaise and of course, Harry. Draco discreetly shrinks the new bags and slips them into his pocket along with the jewellery and books, before taking off towards the tattoo parlour. 

Blaise is covered in tattoos, his bronze skin perfectly complemented by dark outlines and patterns. If Draco can’t find him anything workout related, he might be able to get help designing a tattoo and give it to him instead. That way, Draco can give the paper to Blaise, who can then get it inked onto his skin. It’s a good idea, something personal that Blaise would adore. Draco is grinning by the time he arrives at the parlour. 

There’s an extremely pale woman behind the counter, her dark and curly hair in braids. It’s an interesting contrast, Draco thinks; white skin with black curls. Maybe her parents are of different ethnicities. 

“Good afternoon, sir,” she says, sounding bored. She barely even looks at him, just a quick glance up from her book. “Welcome to Infinity Tattoos.”

She couldn’t sound any less interested, but Draco doesn’t care. He thinks it quite fits the aesthetic of the store. 

“Good afternoon. I was wondering if I could have a consultation with an artist?” He asks, ever polite.

The woman frowns, marks her place in the book, and puts it down. “Why do you want a consultation?”

Draco doesn’t think it’s that weird of a request at all, but he answers her question anyway. 

She looks surprised, but somewhat pleased. “Take a seat, I’ll bring someone out in a little while.” She goes back to reading, making no move to get anyone at all. Draco doesn’t comment on it though, certain she’ll figure something out eventually. 

And she does. Two minutes later, a man covered in tats enters from the back of the shop. He immediately turns to the woman, and they speak in hushed tones for a little. Then he turns to Draco, summoning him into a private room with a leather chair and a terrifying machine. 

“Fayola’s a bit scary sometimes, isn’t she?” He jokes as they enter, directing Draco to sit in the chair. 

He assumes Fayola is the woman in the entrance, and shrugs. “She wasn’t so bad.”

The man chuckles. “I’m glad. My name is Rashon, and she’s my sister. Our parents built this parlour, and we inherited it a few years ago,” he says as he gets himself comfortable and pulls some paper towards him. 

Draco nods absentmindedly. 

“You told Fayola you wanted help designing a tattoo for a friend? That’s an interesting idea, no one’s ever asked me to do that before!”

Draco chuckles nervously, pushing away the urge to pull his wand out to fiddle with it. “Yeah. He’s obsessed with tattoos, so I thought I might give him a special one.”

Rashon nods, his grin lighting up the room. “Do you have any ideas to start with, or…?”

Draco chews the inside of his cheek. “Not really. That’s why I thought I should ask someone who knows what they’re doing.”

Rashon laughs, smile fading a bit as he picks up a pen. “Let me ask you a few questions about this friend, and then we can begin.”

*~*~*~ 

Nearly an hour later, Draco is leaving the parlour with a piece of paper clutched carefully in his hands. He shrinks it down and tucks it into his pocket, sliding it into the bag holding his mother’s earrings. If he loses it, he’s in big trouble. 

Rashon was lovely, and he’d been very helpful. They’d filled out multiple pages with designs, and then cut it down to a couple. Blaise can then choose one or merge multiple together, creating a tattoo he’s ultimately happiest with. Draco thought that was brilliant. 

Now all he needs is something for Harry, and he knows exactly what he wants to get him. Since Harry takes information in the best when it’s written down, he goes through an awful lot of pens. Draco had the idea that a fountain pen might help him. They can refilled, have the same tip as a quill, and can be custom designed. Of course, since he’s buying one today he doesn’t have time for that kind of thing, but he might be able to manage in the future. 

Draco makes his way to an office shop and walks up to the counter. He asks for directions, and the worker happily points him to aisle four. Draco walks to the indicated section and quickly finds the fountain pens. There are rows and rows of them, some plain, some intricate and beautiful. Harry would love so many of them, and Draco has no idea where to begin. 

He steps closer and runs his eyes over them. Some are shaped like quills, and while that is _amazing_ he doesn’t quite think they’re a good choice. If Harry wanted a quill, he’d just use one. Draco spots a couple with real gold-leaf covering them, wrapping around in beautiful patterns. They’re gorgeous, but probably too fancy for Harry. He sighs. This is going to take forever. He’s overthinking, allowing his mind to take control everything. He needs to feel the pens out, use his heart and not his eyes. 

Draco closes them, breathing in deeply. He probably looks ridiculous. Oh well, it’s for Harry. He can survive being laughed at for Harry. 

He starts walking, moving slowly up and down the aisle with his eyes closed. Draco is waiting for something, an indicator of some sort to tell him when to stop. He’s sure his heart will pull, a term used in old Curse Breaking, not that he’s quite sure what that means. Unspeakables work pretty close to Curse Breakers, but they don’t have the same training. Draco takes another deep breath, feeling it expand through his chest. He feels himself calming down, his mind clearing of thoughts. As he does, it feels like his heart is being pulled from his chest, as if on a string. 

His eyes flicker open, and he directs his gaze to the pen in front of him. It’s exactly what Harry would want. Draco picks it up, slowly turning it around. It’s a mix of gold and silver, swirling around the pen and intertwining. The background colour is navy blue, matching his favoured coat. Draco smiles to himself; this is the one. He picks out a couple of different inks—black, blue, a few more unusual colours—and carries them over to the cashier. 

He heaves a sigh of relief as he hands them over and pays. His shopping is complete, and he can finally find Harry and go home. Shrinking the newest bag and sliding it into his pocket, Draco makes his way back to the water fountain. 

*~*~*~

They arrive back in the cottage, Harry’s hand firmly in Draco’s. He can’t believe he has this, that he’s allowed to touch Harry. Not _once_ did he ever think this could be real. But it is, and Draco wants to make the most of it. He pulls Harry towards him and kisses him, his hands holding his neck. Harry hums against him, lips moving slowly, leisurely. 

“I was thinking,” Harry says as he pulls away. 

“That’s dangerous,” Draco murmurs, leaning up to press his lips to his neck. 

Harry chuckles, softening into the touch. “It is indeed.” He closes his eyes and sighs, his hands wrapping around his shoulders to hold Draco in place. It sends a shiver through Draco, to be held like this. 

“Would you like to sleep in the bed tonight?” Harry asks, voice gentle and nervous. 

Draco pulls away, head tilting to the side. “I had it last night.”

Harry nods, stepping away but keeping his hands on Draco’s shoulders. “I know. I meant with _me_ in it too.”

Draco’s breath catches. His eyes widen and a smile creeps over his face. “I’d love that,” he murmurs, scared if he says it too loud it will shatter the moment. 

“Come on then,” Harry whispers, sliding his hands down to Draco’s arms and pulling him towards the bedroom. 

Draco doesn’t know how to act. He feels awkward, out of place. They’ve never done this before. Sure, they’ve slept together on the sofa, but that was with pretences of warmth still firmly up. This is just because they want to, because they want to be close. He gets dressed quickly, hands sluggish and eyes drooping. He’s exhausted, but his heart is also pounding in his chest with nerves. 

As he leaves the bathroom and creeps back into the bedroom, it’s to find the room dark except for his wand on the bed. Harry is sleeping on his side, facing the direction Draco normally does. He swallows hard, forcing himself to take the first step. He shouldn’t be nervous, this is perfectly normal. Draco drops his clothes in a pile on the floor to be dealt with later, and tiptoes towards the bed. 

“Draco,” Harry murmurs, sitting up slightly. “Come here.”

Draco shudders, his name falling softly from Harry’s lips. His feet move without his conscious decision to, and soon he’s sliding into the bed and under the covers. Harry immediately grabs him and pulls him close, hands gentle and warm on his skin. Draco sighs as Harry moves him around, slotting them together so Harry’s chest is to his back. He can feel Harry breathing against him, and he slowly relaxes. 

“You’re beautiful you know,” Harry mumbles, burying his face into Draco’s shoulder and wrapping his arms around his waist. 

Draco sighs, melting into the caress. He feels safe, secure. Loved. “You are too.”

Harry smiles against his neck, Draco can feel it even if he can’t see it. He smiles too, and drifts off to sleep in Harry’s arms. 


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is late again—I got distracted by Christmas lights—but I hope what happens makes up for it! 😏😉

**  
**  
[A beautiful beach with “Merry Christmas” written in the sand and a Christmas hat next to it]

**December 22nd 2003 - Monday**

Harry wakes up warm and hard, his arms wrapped around something soft and cool. As light hits his eyes and makes his eyelids dance with colour, he remembers the day before. He and Draco had decided to sleep in the bed together. Harry groans softly, thinking what’s in his arms must be Draco. He opens his eyes, ready to watch him while he sleeps and press kisses over his face. 

What he sees though, is Draco sitting up in bed reading. His book is one of the new ones he bought from the village, the cover a beautiful beach with ‘Merry Christmas’ written in the sand. The irony of Draco buying a Christmas romance while getting together with Harry isn’t lost on him. He frowns though, eyes moving down to his arms. If it isn’t Draco he’s holding… A pillow. A bloody pillow is in his arms. Harry sighs.

“Good morning,” Draco murmurs, seeing he’s awake. He slots a bookmark into his book and places it down, sliding back under the covers to hold Harry. 

Harry takes a deep breath, releasing it slowly. The sunlight shines through Draco’s hair, lighting it up like a halo of blond. He’s so beautiful, and Harry can’t believe _he_ has him. 

“Morning,” he grumbles, burying his face into Draco’s chest. His morning wood aches, begging to be touched. He doesn’t want to deal with it though, just wants to hold Draco and go back to sleep in his embrace. 

Draco feels it though, and pushes into it. “You have a little something that wants attention, Harry,” he breathes, shuffling even closer. 

Harry groans, his eyes fluttering closed as Draco moves against him. 

“Do you want me to help you with it?” Draco asks, voice soft yet thick. 

Harry wants to say yes, he wants to give in. Has it been long enough though? They’ve only been together for a couple of days, surely he should wait longer. But they’ve known each other for literally half their lives, and he’s liked Draco for _years._ He’s going to give in, his body is going to win this battle. His mind won’t even complain that much anyway, it’s not like he doesn’t want it.

“Please,” he says, his voice rough and needy. He doesn’t even care if he’s begging, Draco won’t judge him. 

Draco grins, pressing his lips to Harry’s. They slide together, warm and slow. Draco shuffles them over so he’s sitting on top of Harry, pressing into his erection and grinding down gently. Harry moans, his hands clutching at Draco’s back and threading into his hair. Draco grinds down again, arching his neck. He kisses Harry harder, increasing the urgency behind it. What was originally gentle and innocent becomes needy and passionate. Desire is driving them now, and Harry never wants to stop. 

He sucks Draco’s bottom lip into his mouth, his tongue flicking over it and making Draco cry out. He writhes against him, hips bucking against Harry. He presses down, his erection making contact with Harry’s through their pyjamas. Harry grunts at that, sucking harder on Draco’s lip and then his tongue. Draco pulls away, breathless and flushed, to attach his lips to Harry’s neck. 

He sucks on it hard, his tongue licking over the skin and his teeth grazing it. Harry arches into it, moving his head to the side to give Draco better access. Stars burst behind his eyes as Draco finds a sensitive spot and digs into it. He’s relentless, licking and sucking until Harry thinks he might die. He’d probably like it too, dying from Draco’s mouth on him. Poetic justice. 

Draco moves away though, licking and kissing his way back up to Harry’s mouth. Harry groans as they kiss again, his hands clawing at Draco’s back. No one has ever been this thorough, has made him this insane with _want_ while still being fully dressed. He realises now that that needs to change. Instantly. 

“Shirt. Off,” he says, hands pulling at the hem of Draco’s shirt. Draco nods against his mouth, kissing him once more before pulling away and tearing his shirt over his head. Harry’s eyes drop down to his bare chest, raking over his pale skin. His nipples are pale and pink, pebbled into hard knobs that Harry wants to suck. 

“Yours too,” Draco murmurs, leaning back in and searching for the bottom of Harry’s shirt. 

He finds it quickly, but Harry gets there first. He pulls it off himself, throwing it behind Draco and not caring where it lands. Draco’s eyes rove over Harry’s chest as well, drinking him in. Harry watches as his eyes darken further, silver retreating to the black. 

“Gorgeous,” Draco murmurs, lifting a hand to trail down his chest. 

Harry’s head falls back, and Draco takes that as an invitation to kiss his way down the skin. His mouth sucks and bites, his teeth sinking into his skin tantalisingly. Harry moans under him, his hands holding Draco in place. Draco’s tongue swirls down his chest and between his nipples, before moving off to the right and licking around one. 

He doesn’t touch it, just swirling it through the hair and occasionally blowing over it. Harry feels his nipple tighten impossibly, and he tries to push Draco onto it. Draco chuckles at him, refusing to give in. He trails a finger around it too now, rough callouses catching on his sensitive skin. 

“Fuck Draco, come _on_ ,” Harry groans, needing his mouth on him. “ _Please_.”

“Had no idea you were such a _beggar_ Harry,” Draco says, teeth closing around it. 

Harry cries out at the tingling pain, his hips moving and seeking out any friction they can find. Draco seems to like the sound, his mouth finally closing around his nipple. Harry whines, the sound catching in his throat and cutting off. Draco hums, sucking and pulling at the taut skin in his mouth. Harry tugs at his hair, and Draco moans. He sucks harder, flicks it over with his tongue. He pulls off, seeks out Harry’s mouth again. He kisses him, lips moving quickly. 

Harry pushes him back down though, needing _more_. Draco laughs, his eyes so dark and his pale skin flushed, but he moves over to the untouched nipple. It’s hard and tight, and as Draco bends to lick at it, Harry’s head falls back onto the pillows yet again. Draco swirls his tongue around it and sucks, his mouth warm and sure. He’s confident, something Harry is immensely grateful for. It’s incredibly hot. 

Draco grazes his nipple gently with his teeth, and it feels like fire is licking up Harry’s skin. He never wants it to end, he wants to burn with it. Draco moans as he sucks harder though, and Harry settles for tugging at his hair instead. It makes Draco groan more, which only increases Harry’s sensations. He gasps as teeth sink into it again, and suddenly it’s too much. 

He pulls Draco away, tugging him up to kiss him again. Harry sucks gently on his lip and then his tongue, and Draco turns to putty under his touch. Draco slowly melts into him, kissing him languorously. Their cocks rub together through their pants, and they rock into each other softly. There’s no rush behind it now, just a gentle pleasure. But then Harry thinks about all the skin he’s yet to put his mouth on, and he can’t stand it anymore. 

“My turn,” Harry growls into Draco’s ear. 

Draco freezes but then moans, understanding what Harry’s saying. Harry pushes him off and flips them around, his body flat on top of Draco’s. Draco whines and moans as Harry kisses across his jaw. Harry licks at a spot under his ear that has him writhing under him, and he sucks at it. He bucks under him, pushing his erection into Harry’s. Harry growls at him and lifts his hips, not letting Draco have any pressure. 

“ _Harry_ ,” he complains, hands scrabbling for purchase on his hips to pull him back down. 

“Draco,” Harry says before biting at his jaw. 

Draco grunts and closes his eyes, hands tightening on the back of Harry’s neck. It makes him feel _owned,_ safe. He nuzzles against Draco for a second, before kissing and sucking at the skin down his neck. Draco moans and whimpers as Harry takes it between his teeth, pulling it up slowly and releasing it. He licks over it, swirling his tongue across bruises that are sure to form later. 

Harry wants to mark him up, wants everyone to know that Draco is _his_. He latches his mouth onto a spot at the base of his neck and sucks, hard and continuously. He doesn’t let up as Draco moans, running his hands over his smooth chest to calm him. Harry eventually pulls off with a pop and licks over it. 

“Bloody hell Potter,” Draco murmurs, eyes hooded and dark. His cheeks are pink, his chest splotchy. 

Harry doesn’t reply, just bends his head to lick his way down to his nipples. He doesn’t tease like Draco does, just swipes his tongue over one and pinches the other between his fingers, rolling the tight flesh. Draco keens and pushes himself into Harry, his back arching off the bed. Harry sucks it into his mouth, feeling the hard nipple on his tongue. It’s heavenly, making Draco fall apart from his nipples alone. 

He groans as Draco somehow aligns his thigh to press into his cock. Harry sees stars at the pressure in just the right spot, his mouth slipping off the nipple. Draco rocks his thigh across him, rubbing circles until Harry’s panting with it. He pushes Draco away after a second though, forcing himself to wait. There’s time for that later. Now is for Draco. 

He sucks his nipple back into his mouth, resumes his fingers on the other. Draco whines and groans, breath catching in his throat. He shifts under Harry, moving under his mouth and hand. His face is beautiful, mouth dropped open on a sigh when Harry flicks his gaze up to him. He’s so stunning, and Harry can’t believe he’s the one doing this. 

Harry pulls off and meets Draco in another kiss, his jaw slack. Harry moans into Draco’s mouth, lining their hips up and pressing down. Draco jolts under him at the pressure, eyes snapping open. He fastens his mouth to Harry’s neck and sucks hard, rocking his hips up to meet Harry’s. 

“Enough teasing, I think,” Harry mumbles against his skin. 

Draco nods feverishly and slides his hands down Harry’s back to his waist. He loops his fingers under the band of his pyjamas and waits for Harry to nod. The second he does, he’s pulling the bottoms down over his arse. 

Harry chuckles at Draco’s urgency, but lifts his hips off him so he can pull them down. Of course, he can only reach so far. Harry laughs again and pulls away, sliding off Draco. He pulls his pyjamas off so he’s standing in just his pants, before pulling Draco’s off too. Draco’s pants are tight and black, hugging his erection and leaving nothing to the imagination. Harry’s eyes rove over them, but before he can lie back down on top of him, the light catches on something else. 

Harry’s eyes fix on a series of white lines cutting across Draco’s stomach and chest, harsh yet thin. Half healed before being left alone. 

“Are those…?” He asks, voice breaking. 

Draco lifts his head, spotting where Harry’s looking. “Harry—”

“They are, aren’t they?”

Draco sighs but nods. He holds his hands out and Harry takes them, allowing himself to be pulled back to the bed. 

“I knew they were there, you know? But, just seeing them right now, like this…”

Draco presses a kiss to his forehead, wrapping his arms around him. “I know Harry. But I’m okay, and you didn’t mean it.”

Harry frowns, tracing his finger along one. The skin is raised and rough. How he hadn’t found them earlier is beyond him, but he has now. “I’m so sorry Draco.”

“I know,” Draco murmurs, kissing him again. He closes his hand over the top of Harry’s, pressing them flat to his skin. It’s warm under Harry’s hand, alive. “But I’m okay.”

Harry nods, swallowing back the rest of his apologies. Now is not the time. 

He sighs, turning his head to catch Draco’s lips in his own. It’s slow at first, but he manages to build it back up. 

“Come on,” he says, sliding back down Draco’s body. “I have unfinished business down here.”

Draco chokes back a laugh. “That’s awful,” he says, but doesn’t protest at all when Harry presses kisses to the insides of his thighs. 

Draco’s legs fall open further, and Harry slides into the gap he’s created. He licks and nips at the sensitive skin, feeling Draco’s muscles clench and twitch under his mouth. Harry makes his way up, nearing his hips and the hard cock still hidden. He nuzzles the area around it, refusing to touch Draco. He breathes hotly over it though, his breath dampening the fabric. Draco sighs, his hands sinking back into Harry’s hair. He mumbles broken pleas, and Harry licks across the band of his pants. 

Draco cries out in need, and Harry takes pity on him. They’ve been teasing for ages, and Harry _really_ wants to put his mouth on him now. He runs a finger along the band, dipping it beneath the elastic. Draco whines, trying to push Harry further down. Harry could resist him easily, but gives in anyway. He pulls the pants slowly down, the black fabric dragging across his skin. Harry pauses right above his cock, and Draco’s arms twitch as if to grab him and finish it himself. Harry chuckles and presses another kiss onto his stomach, before pulling them all the way off and past his ankles. 

Draco’s cock is beautiful. It’s pale and smooth, leaking precome from the tip. Blond hair curls around the base, carefully trimmed short. It stops before reaching his thighs, and Harry groans as he realises Draco must shave it too. Draco moans in response, hands tightening in his hair. He pulls, and Harry loses his patience. 

He lifts his hand, trailing a finger from the base to the head. Draco twitches under him, a groan falling from his lips. Harry grins and does it again, before wrapping his entire hand around it. He pumps once, twice. Slow, tight strokes, dragging across his skin. His thumb swipes through the slit and collects the precome, and he catches Draco’s gaze as he sucks it clean. Draco’s eyes roll and his head drops back, and Harry finally gives in to his urges. 

He swipes his tongue up the length, his hand still tight around the base. Harry licks up again, before circling the head. He dips his tongue along the underside of the head, licking gently and sucking at it. Draco groans under him, his hips bucking up. Harry moans around the tip, sending vibrations down Draco’s cock. He sucks the rest of the head into his mouth, his own cock jumping at how amazing Draco tastes. Salty and sour, kind of sweet. Harry isn’t sure how he manages to taste so good, but he can’t get enough of it. 

Harry dips his tongue into the slit, lifting up the precome. Draco keens as he does, the tip of his cock extremely sensitive. Harry moans around it and slides down further, sucking as much of his cock into his mouth as he can. He relaxes his throat and wraps his tongue around it, before slowly pulling up. Harry sets a steady pace, his hands on Draco’s hips to stop him thrusting into it. It feels amazing, his cock the perfect weight against his tongue. Harry groans, making Draco’s breath catch in his throat. 

He picks up his pace, bobbing his head up and down. His eyes flicker open to watch Draco, listening for what he likes best. Harry starts moving his hand as well, circling his fist tight at the base and squeezing, before sliding up to meet his mouth. Draco whines at the added friction, and Harry allows him to thrust into his mouth now. He wants to feel abused by him, wants his jaw to _ache_ from pleasuring Draco. 

Draco gets the message, hands tightening even further in his hair. He thrusts up once slowly, testing Harry’s boundaries. Then he sets a pace of his own, plunging into Harry’s mouth. It hits the back of Harry’s throat and he almost chokes, but he manages to suppress it. He relaxes his throat further, hollowing his cheeks so Draco can see the imprint. 

It doesn’t take long once Draco is in control of the pace, and he rolls his hips around with a groan.

“So close, Harry,” he murmurs. “Fuck!”

Harry moans around him again, sliding his tongue along his shaft. Draco curls his fingers in, his nails digging into Harry’s head. He thrusts even faster, hips hitting Harry’s face every time. Spit and drool escape out of his mouth with the increased speed, his stomach tightening at the sight he must make. He wants Draco’s come in his mouth, wants him to shoot down his throat. He’ll get it. 

“Fuck fuck _fuck_!” Draco cries. He hisses as Harry allows his teeth to just barely scrape against him. 

“I’m gonna come Harry, oh my god!” 

Harry grunts, nodding his head as Draco fucks into his mouth. It’s so hot, so demeaning yet addicting. He never wants Draco to stop. 

“HarryHarryHarryHarry _Har—_ ” 

Draco comes with a groan, back arching off the bed and hips slamming into Harry’s mouth. His hands dig into his head, and Harry moans as his come hits his tongue. It’s salty, almost like chlorine, but he can’t get enough of it. 

His hand moves again as Draco slows his thrusts, milking the last of his orgasm out. He licks up and down Draco’s cock, pulling the last drops out of him and leaving nothing behind. Harry’s hand swipes across his mouth, wiping away the spit and come. He catches Draco’s eyes and holds it to his mouth, darting his tongue out to swallow that too. Draco groans at the sight and flops down, his arm coming up to cover his eyes as he shakes in the aftershocks. 

“You were so good Draco,” Harry says, moving back up his body. His hand squeezes around his cock, and Draco jerks. 

“Too sensitive,” he murmurs, muffled by his own arm. 

Harry chuckles, pulling it away and moving his hands up to hold Draco’s face. His eyes are blown wide, silver pushed to the very edges. His cheeks and chest are pink, a film of sweat beading at his temples. Harry’s never seen anything more beautiful. 

“Good?” He asks, needing to make sure he didn’t disappoint. 

Draco nods his head, holding onto Harry. “Amazing.” 

He leans in and kisses him, joining their lips together. It starts slow, languorous. Until Draco pauses and pulls away. 

“You wanna come too?” He asks, a leer to his tone. 

Harry whines, eyes hooded. He’s so aroused, so hard his cock aches. 

Draco smirks at him, kissing his jaw and neck. His hand reaches between them, palming at Harry’s clothed cock. Harry groans at the pressure, rocking into his hand in search of friction. He’s desperate, aching for it. He’ll do anything to get Draco’s hand on him. 

Draco seems to read his mind, reaching for his wand and vanishing Harry’s pyjamas and pants in one go. Cold hair hit his skin and he shivers, goosebumps rising to the surface. Draco instantly closes his mouth over Harry’s jaw, sucking on the spot he found earlier. Harry keens as his hand slips back between their bodies, skimming over his stomach. Draco drags his fingers through the line of hair beneath his navel, before dipping them down into pubic hair. 

He drags a single finger up Harry’s cock, making him jerk. Harry sees white spots behind his eyes, his vision blurring out. Draco’s finger slides through his precome, slipping around the head. Harry shudders. He wraps his hand around him, squeezing at the juncture where the shaft meets the head. Harry feels his blood pulse in his neck and cock, and he pushes his hips through the ring of Draco’s fingers. 

Draco slaps his arse, his hand coming down hard on his skin. A whine is wrenched from Harry’s throat as the sound echoes around the room. His skin _burns_ , but it’s absolutely delicious. Draco stills his hand though, forcing Harry to stop thrusting into him. 

“I control this right now, Harry,” he says. “You don’t move.”

Harry moans in frustration, tears prickling at his eyes. He needs to come. Needs release. He forces his hips to still, and once he does Draco tightens his hand again. He starts moving slowly, dragging his fingers over the head, collecting precome, and sliding back down. Harry grunts in time with him, straining his muscles so he doesn’t move. He wouldn’t mind another slap, but he needs Draco’s hand on him too much. 

“There we go Harry. Perfect,” Draco says, murmuring into his ear. He speeds up, the sound of skin on slicked skin filling the room. 

Harry’s pulse increases too, roaring in his ears until he can’t hear anything else. Draco’s hand on his cock tightens, sliding over his skin in delicious waves. Harry’s body trembles and shakes, his eyes squeezing shut. 

“You need to come, don’t you?” Draco asks, voice like honey. 

Harry nods desperately, trying not to grind into Draco’s fist. Draco smirks, sucking on his ear. His tongue trails over the curve of it, licking fire into Harry’s skin even as his hand keeps moving. Harry groans as Draco twists his hand around the head. It’s so hot, so slippery. It’s heaven and hell combined, dark and light both. He wants it to last forever. 

It won’t though. Not if Draco keeps sucking on his skin and working his hand over him. Harry shakes, his hips spasming as he restrains his movement. Draco murmurs in his ear, saying his name over and over. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Harry says, tipping his head back. Draco uses it as an invitation to lick up his throat.

“I’m so close,” he grunts, voice gravelly and deep. 

Draco nods against him, smirks. “I know,” he says. 

Harry moans, and Draco twists his hand again. 

“Come for me,” Draco commands, sucking below his jaw and upping his pace again. 

And Harry does. That single sentence breaks down his walls, and his vision fades into black and gold. He shakes, his back arches and his chest hits Draco’s. His cock burns, shooting rope after rope of come between them and onto Draco’s hand. 

Draco smiles against his skin and keeps pumping him, working his hand slower and steadier. Harry twitches again, his legs locking and stretching. Eventually his vision comes back and his eyes open, finding Draco’s right in front of him. 

‘You’re so hot when you come,” Draco says, immediately kissing him. 

Harry hums in surprise, his hands clutching at Draco. Draco doesn’t deepen the kiss though, keeping it gentle and caring. When he pulls back, he smiles softly at Harry. 

“That was amazing,” Harry says, ducking his head into his shoulder. 

Draco laughs. “It was just a hand job.”

Harry chuckles, shaking his head with a smile. “A really good one.”

Draco is biting his lip when Harry recovers and looks back at him. Whatever it is that’s bothering him seems to vanish, and he pulls Harry back into a snog. Harry reaches for a wand—Draco’s, he thinks, since the handle is slightly slimmer—and casts a cleaning charm over both of them and the bed. 

“Let’s go shower.”

*~*~*~

Harry flops onto the couch innocently just as Draco leaves the bathroom, sauntering into the living room. Honestly, who actually _saunters_? Draco Malfoy does, it would seem. 

“Lunch?” Draco asks, lifting an eyebrow as he turns to look at Harry. 

Harry nods, saying he’ll have anything Draco is willing to make. Draco shakes his head and rolls his eyes, but walks into the kitchen and begins prepping for something. Harry sighs out a relieved breath, hoping Draco can’t tell how flustered he is. He literally just finished wrapping his present for Draco and hiding it as the shower turned off, and his heart was racing with nerves. 

He’s slipped it into a crack in the bookshelf, hiding it between some books Draco isn’t going to go anywhere near. He’s quite happy with it, and can only hope that Draco will like it too come Thursday. Even if they don’t make it out of here, Harry is going to try his best to enjoy Christmas. 

“I made cheese and tomato toasties,” Draco says, carrying a plate out to him a few minutes later. “Hope that’s good enough.”

Harry hums. The bread is perfectly golden, cheese melting out the middle. “They look delicious Draco.”

Draco beams at him, sitting down and leaning against him. “You have a mark on your neck,” he says, head tilted with a smile. “Right here.” His finger traces the spot under Harry’s jaw that he’d sucked at for _ages_. 

“Not surprised,” Harry says around his first mouthful. The tomato is thick and juicy, and he hums around it. “This tastes as good as it looks.”

Draco grins again and picks up his own. He bites into it and moans, staring right at Harry. His stomach flips at the sound, but he ignores it in favour of rolling his eyes. 

Something feels off, no matter how comfortable he is or how great his day started. It pulls at his mind, leaving him off kilter and unsure. It’s plaguing him, and has been ever since he actually got up. He knows he needs to find a way out, that he’s _this_ close to it, but he’s missing something. One connection, he’s sure. It’s annoying, and he can’t place his finger on it. 

“You alright?” Draco asks, prodding his ribs. 

Harry sighs. “I don’t know. There’s something bothering me, but I can’t work out what it is.”

Draco hums, kissing his cheek. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out.” He takes another bite of his sandwich. “You know? I might cast some charms over the items we found, something has to be there.”

Harry freezes. He bolts up right. “That’s it!” 

Draco frowns. “What’s it? I didn’t say anything?”

Harry shakes his head. “The cotton and leather! I can’t believe I didn’t realise it sooner!”

“I have no idea what you’re going on about Harry,” Draco says, watching nervously as Harry begins pacing. 

He can’t help it, he needs to move. Needs to get rid of some of his sudden adrenaline. “‘Mione’s been harping on me for ages! They’re traditional wedding anniversary gifts.” 

Draco pauses, concentration taking over his features. Then he jumps up too, pulling Harry into a hug and smacking a kiss to his lips. “The bracelets!”

Harry stands in the middle of the living room as Draco races off down the hallway and slams into the bedroom. He hears him bang around and grunt as he knocks into things. Harry stands there, unsure what to do. He hopes Draco isn’t hurting himself _too_ seriously to find whatever it is he’s after. Harry has no idea what he means by ‘the bracelets’ other than the fact he’s probably referencing their friends’ ones. 

A few minutes later, Draco runs back into the living room, hands full. He drops the cotton, leather, and one of the bracelets onto the coffee table. 

“They started wearing these a year ago as of the beginning of December. The bastards have been planning this for ages!”

Harry looks down at the table, the items blurring together with their purple and silver colouring. His eyebrows furrow, confusion making his head tilt. “Where did you get the bracelet from? We never had one.”

Draco looks back up at him, triumphant smile on his face. “I just tried to _accio_ one and it worked! It came flying out of the charmed wardrobe and right into my hand.”

Harry huffs and rolls his eyes. Trust his friends to think of something so simple and believe him able to miss it—which he did, unimaginably. 

“Hold on,” he says, raising a hand to stop Draco starting on whatever rant he’s aching to go on. “If the cotton and leather are for the second and third year, and the bracelet is for the first, we’ve completed a set!”

Draco’s eyes widen as he realises what this means. He doesn’t say anything though, and Harry watches as a small smile flicks onto his face. Something else crosses Harry’s mind, something much more interesting than his friends being prats.

“Why do you think they chose gifts for the two and three year marks?” Harry asks him, just to be sure his suspicion is correct. 

Draco blushes furiously, averting his gaze, before muttering, “Blaise thinks I’ve liked you for three years…”

“Have you?” Harry asks, hope rising in his chest.

“That’s besides the point!” 

Harry grins. Reaching a hand out to cup Draco’s face. “Luna is convinced it’s two years for me…”

“Was she right?”

“Absolutely.”

The happiness that shines from Draco’s eyes make the embarrassment of the confession sting a little less, and he leans in to kiss him sweetly. 

“Let’s deal with this tomorrow yeah?” He suggests, wrapping his arms around Draco’s waist and resting his head on his shoulder. “I want to relax a bit.”

“We relaxed yesterday,” Draco says, slapping his arm playfully. 

“I used all my energy up this morning, so I don’t think I can do anything else today.”

“Liar,” Draco accuses. “You just want to cuddle me all day.”

“Exactly!” Harry concedes. “You can finish your book, I can watch you read… Win-win!”

Draco shakes his head but kisses him again, going to get his book. “You’ll regret this when we don’t make it back to London in time.”

Harry grins. “We will! Even if we arrive the _day before_ Christmas, I’ll be happy I got to spend today with you.”

“Sap,” Draco calls down the hallway, but Harry’s face is flushed with happiness and he doesn’t care at all. 


	23. Chapter 23

**  
****  
**[A glass sculpture of a dragon (made to look like ice), curving to the left as if turning in flight]

**December 23rd 2003 - Tuesday**

Draco wakes up in the dark, lips on his cheek. Fingers card through his hair, playing with the strands gently. He knows it has to be Harry, that there isn’t anyone else around to do this. Draco wants to sigh and roll onto him, kiss him good morning. But as the lips move to his mouth, he’s curious. Harry doesn’t strike him as the type of person to take advantage of sleeping people, so just how far will he take it? 

Draco makes sure to keep his breathing deep and even, eyes closed. Harry’s lips touch his again, barely pressing down. He wants to moan into it, wants to wrap his arms around Harry and invite his tongue into his mouth. He can’t though, not if he wants to find out the answer to his question. 

So he doesn’t, and when Harry darts his tongue out to lick his bottom lip, Draco makes sure to keep ‘sleeping’. Harry doesn’t stop there though. His hand remains in Draco’s hair, threading through it and massaging his head, even as his mouth slowly moves. His lips leave Draco’s mouth, choosing instead to rove over his jaw. Draco wants to groan, to tip his head back and give Harry more room to work. He doesn’t though, keeping himself still and silent. Peaceful. Definitely not aroused. 

Harry’s lips move up and down his jaw, nibble at his ear. He swirls his tongue over the spot between his ear and jaw, nosing into his hair. His tongue drags down his neck, licking over his throat. Draco’s hands twitch, desperately wanting to hold onto Harry’s head. Harry kisses his Adam’s apple, lips moving over it as he swallows. He licks down the side, teeth scraping gently over bruises left from yesterday. Draco can’t bite back his moan. 

Harry flinches, freezing just above Draco’s body. Draco brings his hands into Harry’s hair, just as he’d wanted to do, and arches his neck. Harry growls, clearly liking the way Draco has bared his throat to him like an offering. Draco had thought he would, with the way he was dragging his teeth along it. Harry sucks Draco’s neck, his tongue moving over the sensitive skin. Draco mewls as he finds a sensitive spot on the left side of his throat, fixating on that until he’s writhing. 

Draco gasps, his body tingling all over. Yesterday, he’d been the one in control. He’d been the one telling Harry what to do and how to do it. Today though, Harry has turned him into putty and there’s nothing he can do about it. 

“Good morning,” Harry murmurs, licking up his throat back to his mouth. 

Draco can’t find words, just hums in response and hopes that’s enough. 

Harry chuckles at him, the laugh tinged with something darker. He slides his lips over Draco’s, and this time Draco can participate. Draco immediately opens his mouth to him, inviting his tongue in. Harry groans as they slide together, and Draco shivers as sparks trail through his stomach and down to his rapidly rising cock. 

Harry pulls away from his mouth, smiles at him, before sliding back down his body. He kisses his throat again, licking and sucking over the bruises, creating new ones. Draco is going to look like he was mauled by a vampire by the time Harry finishes with him. He doesn’t care though, anything to show people that he’s Harry’s. Draco arches into the touch, his head falling back onto the pillows. Harry nips his teeth over his collarbone, digging them into the ridge. He runs his tongue over it, softening the sting. 

“ _Harry_ ,” Draco breathes, hands clutching his hair and pulling it. He isn’t sure if Harry likes it, but he definitely doesn’t complain or tell him to stop. So he tugs at it a bit harder, testing the waters. When he looks down at Harry, he doesn’t look affected at all, just continuing to trail his tongue over his neck and shoulders. Draco decides it’s not worth it; if it doesn’t make him moan he’s wasting his time. 

Harry nibbles at his collarbone again, pushing his shirt away from it to get more room. He sucks the entire thing into his mouth, his tongue dipping into the crevices. It tickles a bit, but it’s so warm and hot that Draco doesn’t care. Harry moves back up, his hand falling to lift the hem of his shirt in question. Draco nods without hesitation, needing Harry’s skin on his own. Harry pulls it off easily, avoiding Draco’s head, and then rips his own off too. Draco groans as Harry’s hard chest and stomach come into view, wrapping his legs around his waist and pulling him in. 

Harry grunts as his hips line up with Draco’s, and Draco pulls him into a kiss. Their lips join together, an intoxicating slide. It’s messy, wet and warm, but Draco doesn’t care. He feels _owned_ by Harry, pushed into the mattress with no way out. He loves it, and when Harry slowly rocks his hips he _keens._

The noise startles him a bit, ripped from his throat, but it only makes Harry kiss him harder. Draco groans again as Harry grinds his hips down, his erection right against Draco’s aching cock. He needs more; more pressure, more friction. His head is spinning, his eyes falling closed. Harry grunts, caught in his throat, and bows his head to lick at his jaw. Draco tips his head back, allowing Harry to take control entirely. Today, Draco just wants to feel good. 

“ _Draco_ ,” Harry mumbles, his voice rough. “You’re so beautiful.”

Draco’s breath catches, his hands moving to press Harry into him further. Their bodies meld together, he can’t tell where he ends and Harry begins. 

“You have no idea what you do to me,” Harry says, growling as Draco presses his heels into his arse. 

Draco burns, sparks shooting through his body and making him feel alive. He’s never felt like this, never felt so loved. 

“You drive me crazy, so poised and perfect all the time. Look at how you fall apart,” Harry says, breathing harshly into Draco’s neck. 

Draco opens his eyes, seeking out Harry’s in the dark. He isn’t wearing his glasses, and Draco can see right into his emerald green eyes. They’re captivating, holding him in place more so than his body. 

“You’re so strong,” Draco whispers, voice breaking as Harry thrusts harder. “I _want_ you.”

“You have me,” Harry snarls, his lips pushing onto Draco’s again. 

Draco rocks his hips up to meet Harry’s, his cock rubbing against the seam of his trousers and Harry’s own erection. Harry’s words send an electric shock through Draco’s body, as if fire is trailing over his skin. 

“I want you _in_ me,” Draco says, legs tightening around Harry’s waist. 

Harry moans, lips attacking his again. Draco groans into the kiss, his tongue sliding over Harry’s. 

“Not today,” Harry murmurs, tongue dragging over Draco’s bottom lip. “I’m not gonna last.”

Draco shudders, a shiver running down his spine. “ _Harder_ then,” he growls, meeting Harry thrust for thrust. 

Harry snarls at him, digging his cock into Draco’s hip. Draco bucks into it, out of his mind with lust. 

“I’m so close,” Draco says, tipping his head back so Harry can latch onto it again. He does, tongue swirling over his skin even as his hips grind filthily down on Draco’s. 

“Me too,” Harry says, teeth grazing his throat. 

Draco cries out, his legs shaking as Harry’s hands find their way into his hair. Harry slips his fingers in and pulls at it, sending sparks through Draco’s entire body. 

“Come for me, Draco.”

The command, an echo of his own yesterday, sends Draco over the edge. He shakes, his back arching as he comes in his pants. Sparks fly through his body, tingling in his fingers and making his toes curl. His chest hits Harry’s, his feet pressing him even closer. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Harry says, and then he’s crying out too. He curls into Draco, dragging him into a fierce kiss even as his arms shake and he collapses on top of him. 

Draco twitches in the aftershocks, his ankles unhooking and sliding off Harry’s arse. They flop onto the bed, and Harry rolls off him, panting and gasping still. Draco turns over to watch him recover, his face a dark shade of red and beads of sweat rolling down his neck from exertion. He lifts a hand and trails a single finger over his forehead, moving his black hair off his heated skin. 

“That was insane,” Draco chuckles, staring into green eyes. 

Harry huffs out a breath, linking his hand with Draco’s. His skin is impossibly warm under Draco’s, like a furnace in the cold night.

“Very,” Harry agrees, nodding. He nuzzles forward into Draco, his face slotting into his neck. 

“What’s the time?” Draco asks, stifling a yawn. “It’s so dark.”

Harry shrugs, lips curving into a smile against his skin. “No idea.”

“Is the sun even up yet?” Draco reaches for his wand under the pillow, his muscles stretching as he moves. He flicks it at the window, opening the curtain to peek through. It’s sunrise, the sky shifting in colours of pink and orange. 

“It is,” Harry says, holding back a laugh. 

“It wasn’t when we started,” Draco says, rolling his eyes and holding Harry’s head gently. 

“Might have been. We didn’t last very long.”

Draco shakes his head on a laugh. “We weren’t _that_ quick though.”

Harry just hums into his neck, nuzzling into his shoulder and jaw. 

Draco waves his wand over them both, wood cold in his hand, and cleans them off. 

“Time for a shower I think,” he announces, pushing Harry off him. Cleaning charms may remove the sweat and the sticky mess in his pants, but they can only do so much. 

Harry perks up, eyes wide as he looks at Draco. 

“Alone,” Draco says pointedly. 

Harry falls back to the bed, sighing and complaining. Draco grins at him and kisses him slowly, indulging Harry in that before turning and leaving for the bathroom. He needs a _long_ shower if he has any hope of getting his hair back under control. 

*~*~*~

When Draco steps out of the bathroom half an hour later—naked but for the towel wrapped around his waist—the smell of coffee pulls him towards the kitchen. He rushes down the corridor, making a beeline for what he knows will be a perfect coffee. Harry stops him though, stepping in front of the mug with a hand raised. He pushes the hand into Draco’s chest, barring him quite effectively. 

Draco scowls at him, trying to get around him. He _needs_ his coffee. How can he function without it? Harry doesn’t seem to care about that though, his eyes tracking a droplet of water as it trails down his neck and chest. Harry moves his hand, his finger following the water and pressing it into his skin until it sinks in. 

“If we hadn’t just gone this morning, I’d want you right here right now,” he says, eyes burning into Draco’s chest. 

Draco shivers, but slaps Harry’s hand away. “All _I_ want right now is _coffee_ and you’re blocking me from it!”

Harry takes another glance at Draco’s chest, eyes lingering over a nipple, before dropping his hand and stepping to the side. “There you go, coffee to feed your caffeine addiction.”

Draco scowls at him again. “I am not addicted to caffeine,” he says, even as he wraps his hands around the mug and takes a sip. It’s perfect, just as he’d expected. 

Harry raises an eyebrow at him. “Right. My apologies.”

Draco huffs but doesn’t push the point further: Harry does have a point. Theo has been telling him he should cut down, should find something else to wake him up. Draco never listens, he’s a wizard after all. If he gets sick from it they have potions and spells, he’ll be fine. It’s worth it to actually be able to move in the morning. 

“Food? Or just coffee?” Harry asks, turning away from him and messing with some settings on the oven. 

“Food would be good,” Draco says, leaning in to kiss the back of his head. 

Harry hums. “You’ll have to make it yourself then, ‘cause I’m showering.” With that said, Harry turns around again and leaves Draco alone in the kitchen. 

Draco sighs. “I hate you, Potter!”

“No you don’t, Malfoy!”

He hears the bathroom door click shut and runs a hand through his hair. It’s a lot neater than when he’d first stepped into the bathroom, but it’s still in disarray from Harry’s hands in it. Draco hums to himself, thoughts of splashing Harry with a bucket of cold water in his mind as revenge, and turns to the pantry. 

He rifles through it, looking for something he can cook. After pushing everything aside and scanning every box he can find, he comes up with nothing. He chews his lip, moving over to the fridge. The remains of the Buche de Noel is still sitting there, half eaten, and it’s very tempting to just pull it out and eat _that_. He shakes his head. It’s too early for cake! Even if it looks delicious. 

Draco sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. He turns to the oven, switches it off again, and whirls back to the pantry. If he can’t find anything for a hot breakfast, there has to be something he can eat cold. He thought he saw a box of cereal… 

Sure enough, sitting on the bottom shelf is a box of cereal ‘clusters’. He picks the box up, turning it around so he can see the front of it. Apparently, it’s bits of cereal stuck together, with cinnamon and small chunks of apple. Draco shrugs, deciding it’s better than nothing, and a lot healthier than Buche de Noel. He pulls a bowl out of one of the cupboards, pours some of the cereal into the bowl, and returns the box to the pantry. 

He looks at it, unsure how to eat it. He needs a spoon, he thinks, although there’s nothing stopping him using his fingers… No. Clearly he’s spent too much time with Harry. Draco isn’t sure if it needs milk or not, but decides he might as well try. If it doesn’t, he can just get some more. So he opens the fridge again, gazes at the Yule log, and pulls out a 4-pinter of milk. He quickly pours some into the bowl, watching it run over the cereal chunks, and then returns it to the fridge. 

Draco gets a spoon from the cutlery drawer and carries his breakfast to the dining table. It feels cramped and small without Harry’s presence, even though another person should make it feel tiny. It’s a sad spot for a table, pushed to the side wall with only two chairs. He sighs, but takes a seat. He wishes Harry were with him. Draco swallows hard, pushing the thought away. He’s literally down the hall, and will be back in no time. 

*~*~*~

“These are stunning!” Harry calls out from the bedroom, his voice echoing down the corridor and into the living room. 

Draco freezes on the sofa, sitting up straight as if slapped. “What is?” He asks cautiously. 

“Your paintings, of course!” 

Fear boils down Draco’s veins. If Harry has found his paintings, he might have found the one meant to be _his_ present as well. Draco doesn’t particularly care if he sees the sets of flowers, or even the one he’s making for himself, but he does _not_ want him finding the cottage. 

Harry’s footsteps pound down the corridor, the noise reaching Draco’s ears easily as Harry jogs. Draco puts his book down—the one he started yesterday; it’s actually really well written for a change—and turns to look at Harry expectantly. If he’s found his present Draco will need to add _another_ to his list. He only has two days to get them done! A shiver of nervousness runs through him at the lack of time. 

“It’s stunning Draco. Who’s it for?” Harry asks as he rounds the corner and comes into view, holding a canvas to himself. 

“Let me see,” Draco asks, voice small and detached. He coughs, trying to hide his fear. 

Harry grins at him and turns the canvas slowly around. Draco is sure it’s the cottage as snow comes into view, blue and white blending perfectly together. He closes his eyes, trying not to make it too obvious. He can still salvage this, can still find a way around it. 

“The dragon is beyond awesome!” Harry exclaims, tapping Draco on the shoulder. 

Draco’s eyes open a crack and he looks at the canvas. His breathing starts again, picking back up into a normal rhythm. His heart begins beating again and he releases a relieved breath. 

“What? What’s wrong?” Harry asks, voice puzzled. The sofa dips as he sits down next to Draco, hand flat on his shoulder now. 

Draco shakes his head, launching himself at Harry. He slots their mouths together, fire shooting through his body. He pulls back just as quickly, taking the canvas from Harry’s surprise-slackened hands. 

The painting is incomplete, but Draco is quite proud of it. It’s set in a snowy village—in similar colours to the cottage, Draco realises as he looks at it now—with a sculpture in the center. The statue is a dragon flying through the air, carved from ice. Draco loves it, serving both as a reminder of this experience, and of course, a reference to his name. 

“You really like it?” He asks Harry, watching for his expression, for some flicker of doubt or regret. 

Neither come. “I _love_ it Draco. It’s so beautiful.” Harry beams at him, standing up and pulling him into a hug. Draco smiles into it, before remembering the canvas in his hands and awkwardly holding it out of the way.

“When are you going to finish it?” Harry asks, pulling away but not letting go of him. 

Draco smiles, making his eyes wide and innocent. “Today?” He says, toning his voice sweet and hopeful. 

Harry laughs, shaking his head. “ _Of course_ you are. You don’t fool me Malfoy!” He calls out even as Draco is already moving.

Draco grins at him over his shoulder, flicking his wand and making his way outside onto the porch. 

He sets up in the same spot he did on Sunday, his paints and other things flying through the open front door and arranging themselves. Draco hears Harry snort from inside, but he flicks his wand again and the door closes and locks. Harry will _not_ be interrupting him. His eyes glance at the stack of canvases he has, Harry’s present on top. He needs to complete the finishing touches on the others, colour the rest of Harry’s and his own, wait for them to dry, and then add the magic on those _too._ In the span of two days! There’s no way he’s going to be able to get this all done in time. 

There’s a bang from inside the cottage, and Draco’s head whips around as if expecting to see the wall in pieces. It _was_ loud enough. The wall is intact, but Harry grumbles something from inside. He listens as Harry moves around and continues to make lots of noise, things clattering and banging to the floor. Draco has no idea what he’s doing.

He sighs, cracks his knuckles, and picks up a paintbrush. 

*~*~*~

After what must be hours of painting and nothing else, Draco starts packing up. His brushes are drying, his palette is washed, his paints are all nearly packed away. The canvases are dry, the magic intact and settled. He runs his eyes over all of them, happy with the outcome. He’s surprised he got them done so quickly, but he was in the right mood and his hand seemed to fly over them. 

The narcissus is beautiful, with lines of magic and patterns over the deep purple background. They glow in the dark, creating a new perspective of the flower. The best part of it is though, that the magic can be dimmed. So if it goes in her bedroom and she doesn’t want the light, she can turn it off. Draco smiles and runs a finger of the lilac magic. 

The pansies are deep jewel tones, purple and blue spilling over a black background. He wasn’t sure about that, didn’t know how well the tones would carry on black. Turns out he had nothing to worry about. The yellow accents on the flowers bring out the lighting, and the white magic twines around it. It glistens, silvers and white and greys. These don’t glow in the dark, but they create another set of flowers entirely weaving between the painted ones. He’s really impressed with how well it turned out. 

Blaise’s rose is stunning too, pinks and oranges blending together like a sunset. Draco hadn’t known what to paint for Blaise—or Theo, for that matter—and had had to research possible flowers. Eventually he’d found a Francis blaise rose, and while there wasn't much on it, there was enough for him to clutch at. He’s glad he did, because the painting is truly one of his best. With yellow magic winding around the stem and bursting around the petals, it really ties it all together. Draco charmed the magic to warm up when touched, and while he wouldn’t normally encourage hands on his work, he knows Blaise will regardless. It might as well have some effect, and adding some extra wards to protect the paint isn’t exactly hard. 

Theo’s was another challenging one, with no obvious flower sharing the name. While researching though, Draco had actually found a few. There was one he liked, but it was fiery red; too masculine for Theo. He’s embracing his femininity right now after realising he was bisexual, so Draco had wanted something sweet and not overpowering. Something he could stare at and feel at home. He’d managed to find a type of azalea called Theo, and it is a lovely pink. Draco had thought it was much more suitable. The magic _is_ red though, spirals of it curving around the azaleas. He’d originally tried out silver and purple stars, but those hadn’t stuck as well. They were almost _too_ feminine for Theo. So today he’d started again, pulling it apart and threading red in instead. It’s much better now. 

The dragon he’d painted for himself is complete too. The ice sculpture is all graceful lines and curves, the colours understated and almost invisible. He’d wanted it to be intricate, delicate. He thinks he’s achieved it, a slightly blurred out village in the background with a clear sky. Snow falling in tiny snowflakes. The only crisp and detailed thing is the dragon, arching in the air. He’d decided against magic for his own, thinking it would have a nicer effect as a pure painting. He thinks it was the right choice. 

Harry’s is not finished, albeit very close. The cottage is entirely coloured, tiny details painted in to make it as realistic as possible. Draco had spent ages staring at it, trying to memorise every detail. He’s not sure it’s _one hundred_ percent accurate, but it’s definitely close. The forest behind it is outlined and has all the base colours, but he hasn’t finished the next layers or begun the details. The sky is empty canvas, the only sign of anything being there the faint pencil lines. Draco thinks there’s something beautiful and fitting about it, even though he desperately wants to finish it. He’d tried to too, it’s just once his hand begins shaking there’s not much he can do. 

Sighing, he carefully sets everything in place and stands, unlocking the front door and poking his head through. Harry is sitting on the living room floor, surrounded by a mess of wrapping paper. He looks up as Draco walks inside, his supplies floating along behind him. 

“What are you doing in here?” Draco asks, eyes looking around the room. There is multicoloured, obscenely happy paper everywhere. Scissors, tape, and ribbon litter the floor, a pile of lumpy and messily wrapped gifts next to the sofa. 

Harry pouts at him and reaches his hands up. Draco huffs but moves over to pull him up. “Wrapping my presents,” Harry says, mock-offended that Draco couldn’t tell that from the mess. 

“Harry, it looks like a bomb went off in here.”

Harry’s pout only deepens, and he pulls Draco towards him. Draco makes a disgusted sound, resisting Harry’s plea for attention. 

“I’m covered in paint, you don’t want to touch me,” he says, stepping back. 

“Don’t you want to hug me?” Harry asks, face falling further. 

Draco rolls his eyes, knowing that Harry is _nowhere near_ as upset as he’s pretending to be. “No.”

Harry sulks for a second before dropping the act. He looks behind Draco with interest, eyes landing on the stack of paintings. Draco’s glad he made sure Harry’s was slotted into the middle and hidden from view. 

“What you got there?” He asks, sidestepping Draco and walking right up to them. 

“Take a wild guess,” Draco replies, his sarcasm heavy. 

Harry snorts under his breath and stares at the rose on top. His eyes flick over the entire canvas, taking everything in. Draco watches him as he does so, watches him smile as he stares at it. 

“It’s even more beautiful than this morning,” he murmurs, lifting a hand as if to touch it. Right as his finger is about to graze the magic, he freezes. 

“You can,” Draco says, nodding when Harry turns to look at him in surprise. “Blaise is the same, so I made sure it was safe.” 

Harry looks impressed, allowing his hand to run over the yellow lines. His jaw drops open as they glow and warm up, turning orange and then pink. “You didn’t…”

“I did. Do you think he’ll like it?” Draco asks, suddenly unsure. He’s gone to all this effort, it would be awful if Harry didn’t think it was any good. 

“Of course!” Harry exclaims, hand pressing flat over the canvas. “Draco, this is amazing!”

Draco smiles, slightly reassured. Just because Harry likes it doesn’t mean Blaise will, especially not with the amount of bias Harry now holds. 

He changes the topic. “There’s a spell for that you know,” he says, nodding towards the presents. The paper is falling off, somehow working free from all the tape Harry’s slapped on. 

Harry stills, eyes following Draco’s nod. “There’s _what_?”

“Did you not know?”

He shakes his head, tipping it back in frustration and despair. “Did I waste all that time for _nothing_?”

Draco chews his cheek. “Well, _no_. The presents _are_ wrapped.”

“But the paper’s falling off,” Harry says on a sigh. “I’ve alway been bollocks at it. I’ve asked ‘Mione before too, you know? She always said there wasn’t a spell for it.”

Draco hums. “It’s a pure blood spell, not typically included in books anymore.”

“What is it?” Harry asks, pulling his wand from his pocket. 

Draco tells him the incantation, shows him the wand pattern, and watches as he points his wand at the pile. Gold and red light spills from the end of his wand, searching out the presents. It pulls the paper away, vanishes the tape, and swiftly rewraps the gifts. The red and green paper folds easily, stays flat and crisp as the tape is laid over the top, and the gold magic withdraws back into Harry’s wand. 

“That was fast,” Harry says, dumbstruck. 

*~*~*~

Harry is the one making dinner tonight, standing by the cooktop as Draco reads in the living room. He’s nearly finished his book, and is desperate for some relaxation after a whole day of painting. Draco’s newest romance is about a sailor falling in love with the man in the lighthouse. The lighthouse keeper stops him from crashing into rocks during a storm, no doubt saving the sailor’s life. It’s not a common trope—at least, not that Draco’s heard of—and it’s really well written. It also takes place over Christmas, slightly ironic, but even better for it in his opinion. If he imagines the characters as himself and Harry, who’s going to find out? It’s not like they can see into his mind; he’s far too good at Occlumency for that. 

“It’s ready!” Harry calls out, putting the finishing touches on the bowls and pouring two glasses of wine. 

“What is it? It smells amazing,” Draco says, placing his bookmark between the pages and setting it on the coffee table. 

“Fettuccine Alfredo,” Harry answers, putting the remaining food into another bowl, covering it in cling wrap, and sliding it into the fridge. 

Draco hums, kissing Harry sweetly in thanks. He moves over to the wine, smile on his face as he sees what it is. 

“Chardonnay!” 

Harry tips his head to the side. “Is that what it is? I couldn’t read the label on the bottle.”

Draco sighs even as he tries not to laugh. “You have good luck then, I guess.” 

“Why?”

Draco rolls his eyes, picking up his bowl and glass. “Chardonnay is the best wine to go with a meal like this. It compliments the creamy chicken and sauce.”

Harry just nods. He probably doesn’t understand a word Draco is saying. Draco doesn’t blame him, it’s not exactly the most interesting subject to study, no matter what his father said. 

They carry their food out into the living room, Draco plopping back into his seat from earlier. Harry sits down next to him, nudging close. Draco wants to chastise him for it, but can’t find it in himself to do so. He wraps the pasta around his fork, carefully bringing it to his mouth. It’s delicious and perfectly cooked, the chicken buttery and juicy. 

He hums in pleasure, turning to look at Harry. “How’d you learn to cook like this?”

Harry shrugs, taking a careful sip of his Chardonnay. “Molly.”

Draco nods, not surprised in the slightest. It makes a lot of sense. He looks in front of him to the fire, flickering in the grate. It reflects off the Christmas tree, sending rainbow light all over the living room. The tree is ridiculous, rainbow colours muted in plastic. Harry _did_ decorate it pretty well though, so it’s not as bad as it could be. 

“You looking at the tree?” Harry asks, nudging his thigh. 

“Yep,” Draco admits, taking a sip of his wine. 

“It’s hideous isn’t it?” Harry laughs. “I much prefer green trees.”

Draco chuckles at that. “Me too, but it’s not so bad. Funny, more than ugly.”

Harry nods in thought. 

Once they finish their food—which doesn’t take long, considering they’ve both been busy all afternoon and have worked up a large appetite—the bowls are sent to the kitchen to be dealt with later, and they relax back on the sofa. Harry rests against him, making no pretence in his affection. Draco thinks he might go to sleep there, using him as a cushion. He wouldn’t complain too much, Harry isn’t exactly _bony_ with all that muscle on him. He thinks that, even if he _was_ , he would suck it up. Harry looks so comfortable. 

“Can we talk?” Harry asks, opening his eyes to look up into his face. 

The smile drops off Draco’s lips, concern taking its place. Harry can’t be regretting something already, can he? “Sure.”

“Calm down, you haven’t done anything wrong,” Harry says, shifting so he’s facing Draco. 

Draco looks into his earnest face, emerald eyes shining in the light of the fire. 

“Do you know why it took me so long to kiss you?”

Draco pauses, head tilting to the side. He frowns. “No?”

“I was scared,” Harry admits, voice unwavering. He’s clearly been thinking about this a lot. “Scared that you wouldn’t want me, that despite the flirting you didn’t mean any of it. I was worried I wasn’t good enough, that I was failing some vital test or something.”

Draco shakes his head, wanting to reach for Harry to comfort him but knowing Harry doesn’t want that right now. So he offers his own words. 

“So was I,” he murmurs, voice cracking. He _hasn’t_ been thinking about, has been pushing it aside like so many other things. “I was terrified you thought I was broken, that I would never deserve it. I was afraid you’d still judge me on who I used to be, and not who I’ve become.”

Harry sighs, his exhale long and low. “I’m glad I wasn’t the only one.” He runs his hand through his hair. “You know I’d never do that, right? I spoke at your trial, you know I don’t judge you for your past.”

Draco nods, shuts his eyes. He does, he just hadn’t expected to see it so plainly. 

“You aren’t broken, and you deserve the world,” Harry continues, hands moving forward and taking Draco’s own. 

“And you aren’t failing any test,” Draco says, bitter laugh leaving his lips. “If anything, you were acing all of them and I was trying to write it off as cheating.”

Harry smiles, hand moving up his face to brush some of his hair away. “Thank you,” he murmurs. 

“You too,” Draco agrees, leaning in to kiss him. 

As he climbs into bed later in the night, slightly wine drunk and fuzzy in the head, he wraps himself around Harry. Draco feels much more at ease with Harry after that conversation, like he knows his footing now. He’s no longer something broken that Harry thinks he can stitch up, and is instead something whole and deserving of love. He feels accepted, cared for. He’s more secure in the relationship, and as Harry rolls over so they’re sleeping facing each other, he thinks Harry is too. 


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to hell, where we have 10k chapters with a side of 5k of pure porn! Sorry it’s so long... 😅

**  
**  
[London’s ‘Tower Bridge’ lit up at night, a tree decorated with Christmas lights to the left, and a street lamp on the right] **  
**

**December 24th 2003 - Wednesday**

Harry wakes up with his face pressed into something warm and firm. He immediately knows it’s Draco’s chest, and he breathes him in. After the conversation last night, Harry feels much more comfortable with him. It feels like they’re in an actual relationship now, instead of just being two guys hiding their feelings with sex. It feels good, and he wraps his arms around Draco. 

“Good morning,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the side of Draco’s head. 

When Draco doesn’t respond, Harry grins to himself. This means he gets to look at Draco and watch him sleep. It sounds kind of creepy, but it feels innocent and _right_ as he watches Draco breathe in and out. 

The light is weak, the sun only just beginning to rise. It hits Harry’s back, slowly warming him up in gold light. It also reaches Draco’s face, turning his skin slightly yellow and making his hair _glow_ with it. Unfortunately, it also shines right in Draco’s eyes and wakes him up. 

“Hello,” Harry says, leaning his face closer to Draco’s and pressing a soft kiss to the end of his nose. 

Draco squirms, lazily opening one eye to look at him. “Harry.”

“Draco.”

Harry smiles at him softly, kissing his lips this time. Draco sighs into it, hands moving sluggishly to slip into Harry’s hair. His hands ball into fists, knuckles rolling over Harry’s head and massaging it. Harry moans quietly, and Draco pulls again. Draco has a thing for hair pulling, and while Harry is more than happy to do it for him, he doesn’t want his own hair pulled like that. 

He keeps the kiss slow, innocent and gentle. His hands find Draco’s on his own head, holding them securely and prying his fingers out of his hair. Draco whines as his hand is removed, but Harry allows to move it to the back of his neck. He seems to perk up at that, deepening the kiss. 

“Not now, Draco,” Harry murmurs, pulling away from his addicting mouth. 

Draco groans, not listening as he chases Harry’s mouth. When he doesn’t find it again, he opens his eyes. He blinks, surprised to see Harry looking at him. 

“I don’t want to mess around this morning,” Harry says, making it perfectly clear. 

Draco pouts, sticking his bottom lip out. Harry shakes his head. It won’t work on him. 

“Why not?”

“You mean more to me than just sex, and I’d rather we figure out how to _leave_ since Christmas is _tomorrow._ ”

Draco sighs but a fond smile takes over his face, so Harry thinks he’s forgiven. “ _Okay_. But I’ll try again later.”

“You’re insatiable,” Harry says, shaking his head with a laugh. 

Draco winks at him, sliding his hands down to grab a handful of Harry’s arse. “Only for you.”

Harry scoffs, kisses him yet again, and rolls out of bed. 

*~*~*~

Harry makes them breakfast, including a very strong coffee for Draco, and carries it out to the living room. Draco instantly grabs for the mug, wrapping his hands around it and taking a sip. 

“Thank you,” he murmurs, eyes stuck on the coffee as if it’s some miracle and not something Harry’s done for him for days. 

“You’re welcome,” Harry says. “Eat something too, I think I’ve got it all worked out.”

Draco chokes on his mouthful, coughing. Harry reaches for him to comfort him, but he swats Harry’s hands away. He swallows a couple of times, coughs and splutters some more, and then stares at Harry. “You’ve _what_? _When_?!”

Harry shrugs, smiling into his hands. “While making breakfast.”

“You were multitasking? Harry Potter, the world renowned idiot, was _thinking_ while cooking?” Draco’s eyebrows rise, pale arches that Harry’s eyes helplessly track. 

Harry shrugs again. “Yep.”

Draco’s eyes widen but he doesn’t say anything, just gestures for Harry to speak. 

Harry’s heart clenches as he tells Draco his theory. A part of him doesn’t want to say it, doesn’t want to make it so easy for them to leave. That part of him likes the cottage, likes the village and how easy it is for them to be together here. Once they’re back in London, they have their own lives to go to. They won’t live together, won’t have all day off to spend with each other. But the other part of Harry is reasonable. There’s no use staying here, there’s nothing for them. They need to go back to their homes and lives, and their relationship will have to grow stronger in order to survive. It’s not fair to ask one of them to give something up while expecting everything else to stay the same. 

He sits Draco down tells him everything. About their friends’ abuse of their combined power; Ron, Hermione, Seamus, Dean, Luna, Neville, Zabini, Parkinson, Nott, Robards, and Draco’s work partner all have jobs and skills that make them an indestructible force. 

“Sam.”

Harry stops. “Pardon?”

“My work partner, you can refer to them as Sam.”

Harry narrows his eyes. “Is that their real name?”

Draco smiles, shakes his head. “No, but it will do.”

He nods, giving in. _Sam_ deserves privacy, and if that means Harry can’t find out their real name just yet, that’s fine. 

Now that Harry’s made sure Draco remembers their suspects, he starts with the new information. 

“You know how the person who called the Cabinet in had touched it?” He asks, looking at Draco. 

He nods slowly. “Their hair fell out.”

“It was Robards.”

Draco flinches. “Really?!”

Harry nods. “It has to be. He was wearing a weird beanie that morning, pulled down to cover his ears. He also looked at me strange, as if he was feeling guilty.”

Draco pauses, head tilting to the side. “I remember that! It was a beautiful shade of navy blue.”

Harry scoffs. “Trust you to remember the _colour_!” 

Draco sticks his nose in the air but doesn’t bother defending himself. 

“I reckon he must have volunteered for it too. He was practically bald to start with, so when I say he ‘lost all his hair’ it’s a very loose term,” Harry continues, taking a bite of his red apple. 

Draco snorts. “It will save him worrying about it all slowly fading away, I guess.”

Harry smiles. “I’ve also got a pretty good idea of which of our friends did what.”

Draco looks taken aback, but nods. “Go on then.”

Harry talks about how there must have been lots of different groups working on separate tasks. It’s the only way they could have achieved so much so quickly. One of these groups—probably Hermione and Parkinson, the two most formidable women Harry has ever known—weaved spells through the original Cabinet, changing its directive. They could have easily tampered with the magic, moving the strings around so instead of transporting things along the line, it snapped towards the end. That would explain why Draco and he were so close to the matching Cabinet, but not inside of it. 

A second group would have been in charge of duplicating the courtyard. If the magic core analysis they carried out reveals anything, it’s that weak magic was used over a period of time, and then strong magic all of a sudden covered it. The only people Harry thinks could have pulled it off are Ron, Dean, and Nott. Ron and Dean are very strong anyway, Ron bulking up for the Aurors and Dean just enjoying working out. He doesn’t know about Nott, but according to Draco he’s been reading a lot and looking into different types of magic. It would make sense, since, if Harry remembers correctly, Nott made it into NEWT level Potions; he must be quite strong magically speaking. 

A third group would have been in charge of making the items: dyeing the leather and cotton, creating the robes for the group Harry stumbled across in the forest, maybe even altering the Cabinets aesthetically. The only people he can think of that would be interested in that are Luna and Seamus, both of them being creative and extremely talented in the arts. It would make sense, since neither are particularly powerful, either magically or physically. Harry feels kind of bad thinking about them like that, but it is true. If Seamus has a knack of blowing up cauldrons, what would he be like dealing with delicate magic to this degree?

One more group would have created the cottage, a group of people exceptionally strong yet creative too. Harry thinks it might be Neville, Sam, and Zabini. Sam would have to be really strong and knowledgeable about magic to be an Unspeakable—especially as Malfoy’s partner, who must be one of the best in England. Neville is surprisingly talented too, once he bought his own wand instead of using his father’s. Harry isn’t sure about Zabini, but Draco says he’s been working out and focusing on his physical strength a lot, which would come in handy when creating a building out of nothing. 

There’s only the question of who created the side effect that’s been driving Draco and him mad. Hermione was definitely the brains behind it, but Sam is the only one who would have been able to carry it out. Harry is going to kick them to hell when he sees them, a truly ironic punishment for making him nearly freeze to death. They are the only people who would try to make them unbearably cold in order to pull them together. The fact it _worked_ is irrelevant. 

Harry is very impressed with their dedication to the project, but he’s very annoyed that it was directed at him. 

“That’s… impressive,” Draco says, sitting back against the couch cushions. “And you figured all of that out just now?”

Harry scrunches his face up. “It’s been playing around in my head for a couple of days, but it all clicked this morning, yes.”

Draco nods slowly. “You know, now that you’ve put it so plainly, I know how to get us out of here.”

Harry raises an eyebrow, watching as Draco follows the movement. “Really?” He asks, voice low. 

Draco slaps him gently. “If I weave the bracelet, leather, and cotton together, and put it in the _drawer_ in the Cabinet, it should call the magic back”

“Didn’t we already know that that might work?” Harry asks, mind flashing back a couple of days and trying to pinpoint when it was said originally. 

“Yes, but now I’m _confident_. If Pansy is one of the people responsible for the Cabinet, she’d make it harder than just putting them in the main compartment. Guaranteed they need to be woven together once already placed inside the drawer at the back.”

Harry sighs, nodding. “Hermione would be on board for that too.”

Draco grins at him, the smile slowly turning sly. “Now that we know how to get back, shouldn’t we do something to celebrate?”

Harry shakes his head with a smile, but when he looks at Draco he finds his eyes dark and his lips parted. There’s no way he can resist him now. 

“Let’s go then,” he says, already standing up and pulling Draco towards him. 

Draco licks his lips, tongue swiping along them subconsciously. Harry grunts at the sight, dragging Draco in and pressing their mouths together. He kisses him slowly, his lips gentle on Draco’s. His hands slide into Draco’s hair, tugging it gently to angle his head. Draco moans into the kiss, and Harry takes advantage of it, nudging his tongue into the opening. Draco groans, his tongue meeting Harry’s. He sucks on it, sliding them together. His mouth is warm and soft, addictive in every way. It tastes like him, Draco’s own flavour standing out even among the coffee. 

“Bed,” Draco says, pulling back with a whimper. His hands claw at Harry’s back and hips, tugging at his shirt. Harry pushes into the touch, head tilting to allow Draco to kiss his jaw. Draco instantly moves in, lips and tongue swirling over his skin in a delicious slide. He manages to pull Harry’s shirt up his back to his shoulders, and Harry is forced to disentangle himself from Draco to pull it over his head. Draco’s eyes rove over his bare chest and stomach, hand raising to push into the muscle. 

“Bed,” he repeats, grabbing Harry’s hand and hauling him along. Harry’s heart races as they run down the corridor, jogging into the bedroom and slamming the door shut. He hears Draco lock it automatically, before he’s being pushed to the mattress. 

“What do you want?” Draco asks, launching himself at Harry and immediately sucking on his neck again. His hips grind into Harry’s, making his eyes fall shut and pulling a groan from him. 

Harry’s vision is blurry when he opens his eyes again, and he realises Draco has removed his glasses. He whines when he can’t see Draco’s face clearly, but decides it’s worth it if he can kiss him without them digging into his skin. 

“What do you want?” Draco says again, lifting his hips off Harry’s and removing his mouth from his throat. 

Harry arches his back, desperate for more. “Anything,” he whines, heading tilting and his hands seeking out Draco. 

Draco huffs, rolling off him. Harry’s skin burns where Draco has left it, and he turns on his side to push against him again. “That’s not how this works,” Draco says, nudging Harry away. “Tell me what you want,” he repeats, voice low and silky. In control. 

Harry groans but flips their position so he’s on top of Draco. He lines their hips up and grinds down on him, mouth dropping open as he feels Draco’s cock hard against his. 

“I want to fuck you into the mattress,” he growls, pulling a loud moan from Draco. 

“Do it,” Draco breathes, clutching onto Harry’s hips and digging his nails on. “I don’t want to walk for a _week._ ”

Harry scoffs, dropping his chest onto Draco’s and crushing him under his weight. He pulls him into a fierce kiss, teeth clashing with the force of it. The pain should make him wince, but it just increases the fervour. 

He pulls back though, looking into Draco’s lust blown eyes. “Are you sure? We can do it the other way too if you want.”

Draco shakes his head, feet locking over the back of Harry’s knees. “I want you inside me, Harry. I want you to split me open and make me _scream_.”

Harry’s chest tightens, his mind getting lost as an image of that flickers across his vision. “Yes.”

Draco moans, hands moving to claw at his back. He bucks up into Harry, head lolling to the side as his cock touches Harry’s. Harry groans, suddenly desperate to get Draco naked. His hands roam over his chest, taking fistfuls of his shirt. He wants to rip it off, wants to throw it away like the useless fabric it is. The fact that Draco would kill him is the only thing stopping him. Instead, he sits back and tugs it off him. Draco helps, lifting his shoulders off the bed as best he can. 

“You switched very quickly,” Harry murmurs, mouth suddenly next to his ear. He throws the shirt somewhere behind him, not caring where it ends up so long as Draco’s bare skin is before him. “I thought for sure you’d want to fuck _me_.”

“Do you want me to fuck you?” Draco asks, legs crossing and pulling Harry close. 

“Not right now, but at some point probably.” He’s never bottomed before, never this easily at least, but he wants to try with Draco. Draco would be calm and sure, confident, focused on Harry’s pleasure. It sounds amazing. But not right now. 

“That’s what I thought. Yes, I’m sure I want your massive cock in my arse, _come on_ ,” Draco urges, hips rolling under Harry. 

Harry chuckles, leaning back down and slotting their mouths together. 

He kisses Draco like his life depends on it, like Draco will keep him alive. The thought of fucking into him, pushing into his tight body, has him desperate to speed things up. He also wants to pull Draco apart though, wants him to beg for it. Eventually the latter wins out, and his mouth moves across his face to his ear. His tongue drags over his skin, moving through the ridges in his ear. Draco shivers, hands clutching at Harry’s head. He doesn’t pull his hair, just holds him in place. Harry smiles against his skin, before sucking on the spot under his ear. 

Draco groans loudly, his head falling back onto the mattress. His fingers press into Harry’s head harder, digging into his skin in a pleasurable burn. Harry nips at the side of his throat, licking over the mark before sucking it into his mouth again. His tongue swirls over it, and he hopes it bruises. When he gets back to London, he wants everyone to see it and _know_. 

“ _More_ ,” Draco groans, hips moving against Harry’s stomach. 

Harry huffs a laugh out, nipping his jaw and dragging his mouth down to his chest. He licks over the scars littering his porcelain skin, kissing them and worshipping them. A silent apology that he’s already given and will keep giving for as long as he can. 

“Harry,” Draco breathes.

He looks up at him through his eyelashes, finding Draco’s cheeks pink. His silver eyes are taken over by black, and they widen as Harry gazes at him. 

“Fuck,” he says, hips rocking against Harry’s stomach again. 

Harry’s own cock aches, trapped in his jeans. He wants to pull them off, wants them both naked and free. First though, he wants Draco begging. He continues dragging his tongue over Draco’s chest, dipping into the faint lines of muscle and sliding over his scars. Harry sinks his teeth into the flesh around a nipple, not touching it. Draco keens and whimpers, his hands tightening their grip in his hair. 

Harry removes his teeth, his lips dragging around the hardened nipple. He refuses to touch it though. He moves to the other one, teeth grazing the skin and lips smoothing it over. Draco moans, pulling Harry closer. Harry is stubborn though, and he won’t let Draco win. 

“ _Harry_ ,” Draco whines. “Come on!”

“Draco,” Harry says, pulling his mouth away. 

Draco panics, pushing Harry back down. “ _Pleaser_.”

Harry grins against him, his tongue darting out and swiping over the pebbled skin. “That’s all you had to do.”

Draco groans, his back arching into Harry’s mouth. He curses as Harry nibbles him, his teeth harsh yet gentle. Harry licks over it, tongue dipping into the indents he just made. He pulls it into his mouth, his tongue swirling over it. Draco rolls his hips again, clearly desperate for some greater relief. 

“Fuck me,” he says, breathless. 

Harry doesn’t let up, his hand finding Draco’s other nipple. He takes the flesh in hand, pinching it between his fingers and pulling it. 

“Fuck Harry,” Draco swears. “Please.”

Harry pulls away, moving back to kiss Draco fiercely. He immediately slides his tongue into Draco’s mouth, between his lips. Draco moans, sucking it. 

“You have a thing for me begging, don’t you?” He asks, tipping his head back and offering his neck. 

Harry doesn’t reply, nipping his jaw before capturing his lips again. His hands move down, fingertips gliding across his skin. They find Draco’s trousers, pausing over his belt. Draco nods into the kiss, urging Harry on as though he can’t wait another second. Harry smiles against his mouth and flips the buckle open, pulling the leather free and sliding it out of the loops. He throws the belt onto the ground with a clang. 

He hooks his fingers under the fabric of Draco’s trousers, moving along the waistline. Draco groans, goosebumps rising to his skin. Harry presses a sweet kiss to his lips and ducks down, trailing his tongue all the way down his throat to his navel. Draco moans above him, hands finding Harry’s head and burrowing into his hair. He sucks on Draco’s lower stomach, teeth occasionally grazing the skin. His face feels impossibly warm as he drags his tongue over his skin, and his fingers hover over the button to Draco’s trousers. 

“Can I?” He asks, making sure Draco is still comfortable. 

“You’d better,” Draco snarls, thrusting his hips up into Harry’s face. 

Harry’s laugh cuts off with a groan as he smells Draco’s arousal, and he quickly undoes the trousers. The zipper makes a satisfying sound as he pulls it down, revealing dark grey boxer briefs. The underwear hugs Draco’s very obvious erection, and Harry presses his nose against it. 

Draco sucks in a breath as Harry nuzzles his cock, and Harry only moves away to pull Draco’s trousers all the way down. He frees Draco’s feet and throws the trousers behind him, hopefully landing somewhere near his shirt. Harry’s hands rub up and down Draco’s thighs, massaging the heated skin as he looks his fill. 

Draco is gorgeous, lean muscle covering his legs. Faint blond hair dusts the skin, becoming thicker the closer it gets to his groin. Harry presses his face against his thighs, his breath warm against his skin. Draco groans again, and Harry darts his tongue out to taste the inside of his thighs. The skin tastes muskier here, but still like skin. He wants to taste something else, something darker. 

Harry pushes his face into Draco’s groin, breathing him in again before pushing his fingers into the legs of his briefs. His fingers touch the smooth skin and Draco’s breath catches. Harry runs his hand along the leg holes, drawing moans and shaky exhales from Draco. He presses his nose into the gap, taking a deep breath. 

Harry pulls away, licking his lips, and reaches for the waistband of Draco’s pants. His eyes flicker back to Draco, finding him nodding desperately again, and Harry pulls them down. Draco’s cock springs free, hitting Harry’s face. Harry would be offended, but now all he wants is to get it in his mouth. He wants to make Draco scream, after all. This is one way he can achieve that. 

Harry pulls Draco’s pants off his long legs, throws them out of the way, and chases Draco’s cock. His hand wraps around it firmly, holding it still. He gazes at it for a second, eyes tracking a drop of precome that drips out of the slit. He growls, leaning forward to drag his tongue up from the base. 

Draco cries out as Harry’s tongue touches him, and it encourages Harry more than his _smell_ does. He smells amazing, something Harry could get lost in. Harry hums, licking around the head before taking it into his mouth. He groans as it hits his tongue and he puts on a show for Draco, hollowing his cheeks. Draco’s hips twitch, and Harry holds him in place roughly. 

He pops the tip out of his mouth to run his tongue along a vein. It makes Draco whimper, and he does it again. Harry takes the head back into his mouth, sucking down on it. That would make _him_ dizzy, so he hopes it has the same effect on Draco. He slides down further, taking more and more of Draco’s cock into his mouth. It’s warm and sensitive, and he’s pulling Draco apart. Harry moans around it, swirling his tongue over the skin in his mouth. 

Draco grunts, hips bucking despite Harry’s hands on him. Harry slaps him lightly, chastising him without words. He groans with the need to move, but also at how good it must feel. Harry doesn’t like to think of himself as arrogant, but he likes to believe he gives blow jobs that would make the devil’s knees weak. Draco twitches under the strain of not moving, but Harry is relentless. He wants to be able to speak when he fucks him, meaning his jaw can’t hurt _that_ much. 

Harry pulls off entirely, his tongue trailing after his lips. He licks all the way up before running it through the slit, collecting the precome gathering there. It’s salty and perfect, and Harry moans as it hits his tongue. Draco shudders under him, hands trying to push Harry back down. 

“Harry, please,” Draco begs, trying to play Harry’s weaknesses. 

“Draco, no,” Harry says, sitting back and leaning over to suck on Draco’s nipples again. 

Draco’s head tips back, eyes falling closed again. Harry’s hand finds his cock, wrapping it around the warm and wet length. He gives it a few strokes, making Draco’s legs shake. He hadn’t realised he was so close. 

“I wanna fuck you,” Harry says, voice unwavering as he releases Draco’s nipple. 

Draco moans loudly, legs wrapping around Harry’s waist. “Do it then.”

Harry chuckles, grinding his hips down on Draco’s. It's the most pressure he’s had for a while, and he’s aching to touch himself. He won’t though, this is about Draco. 

“I need to prepare you first,” Harry says, hands running all over Draco’s chest. 

Draco shakes his head, opening his eyes to look at Harry. “Magic. Use magic.”

Harry pouts at him. “But I wanted to eat your arse out.”

That causes a reaction. Draco halts, his breath catching. His heartbeat skyrockets under Harry’s fingers, and he nods emphatically. 

Harry laughs against his skin and begins kissing back down his body. He takes Draco’s cock into his mouth for a single second again before rising off it, and pushing Draco’s legs further apart. His hole is a tight pucker, slightly darker than the surrounding skin. It’s hairless, his cheeks neatly shaved with either a spell or a Muggle razor. Harry feels his eyes widen, and he hums softly at the picture it brings to his mind. 

He runs his hands up and down Draco’s thighs, relaxing the wound-up muscles. It won’t do to have him stiff and uptight. Harry spreads his legs further and inches closer, pushing his face into the gap. It doesn’t work very well, and he can’t get close enough. He groans in frustration, placing kisses along the insides of Draco’s thighs. 

“Knees up,” he commands, voice firm and steady even though he feels like jelly inside. 

Draco breathes heavily and draws his knees in, exposing his hole to Harry. He drinks in the sight, eyes roving across the skin. He needs to taste it, needs to get his tongue as far inside as possible. Harry moves onto his elbows and edges closer, hands resting on the backs of Draco’s thighs. His hands are dark against the white skin, and he feels a jolt of arousal at the contrast. 

Harry spreads Draco’s cheeks further, watching his hole twitch in the cold air. He breathes hotly over it, preparing Draco for his touch. Then he leans forward, bending his head over it, and drags his tongue along Draco’s crevice in a smooth line. Draco cries out, whimpering at the slightest touch. Harry growls at how easily he falls apart, and starts licking him in earnest. 

His tongue traces circles around the sensitive skin, before it flattens out over the hole. He draws shapes over it, making him nice and wet. Then he tries pushing his tongue inside, smiling to himself as it meets resistance. Draco hasn’t done this in a while, which means Harry can take all the time in the world stretching him out. 

He licks again, long and slow. His breath is warm on his face, rushing onto Draco’s skin as well. Harry’s tongue circles around the hole, licking over it but not pushing inside again. Draco keens above him, a high pitched, detached sound. Harry grins, pressing his tongue flat over the entrance. He doesn’t move it for a while, instead massaging Draco’s arse with his hands. 

“ _Harry_ , come on,” Draco whines, trying to move Harry so his tongue slips inside. 

Harry doesn’t move though, his grip firm. He doesn’t talk, instead shaking his head and allowing his tongue to move with him. 

It pulls a moan from Draco, who curses and urges him along. Harry drags his mouth off him slowly, his bottom lip catching on the rim. Draco grunts, hands flying to Harry’s head and trying to hold him in place. He doesn’t quite reach though, hands barely scraping him. 

“Fine,” Draco huffs, rocking his hips. “ _Please_ ,” he says sweetly.

Not good enough. Harry wants him to mean it. His hands curl in, nails digging lightly into his cheeks. 

“Fuck, please!” Draco cries.

Much better. 

Harry moans in approval and places his mouth back over his hole. He licks slowly and gently, warming Draco up again. Once Draco is groaning above him again, he speeds up. His strokes become desperate, his tongue lapping at Draco’s hole. He tastes musky and masculine, like nothing else in the world. Harry sucks at it gently, before pulling off with a wet pop. 

Draco whines in complaint, but after less than a second Harry’s tongue is pushing forward. He twists it in past the ring of muscle, sliding in slowly. Inside it’s warm and soft, cushioned and wet with saliva. Harry moans at the same time Draco does, and he turns his head to nuzzle at his thigh. 

He pushes in further, gives Draco a second to adjust to it, and then pulls back out. Harry thrusts his tongue back in, pushing in as deep as he can. Draco moans loudly, and Harry does it again. And again. He makes Draco fall apart, loosening his hole. His tongue starts squelching, a sound that would normally make his nose scrunch up but now sends sparks through his stomach with arousal. He smirks against Draco’s skin, even as he tries to push in as far as possible. His eyes flicker up to Draco’s face, finding it flushed and unreserved, his jaw hanging open on a silent moan. 

Harry pulls out, circling the muscle with a finger. Draco groans, his hands hitting Harry’s back. He pulls his head away from him, reaching his other hand out. Thankfully, Draco seems coherent enough to understand, pulling a bottle of lube from God-knows-where and practically throwing it into Harry’s hand. Harry pops the cap open, squeezes some out onto his fingers and Draco’s hole, and slides in to the first knuckle. 

Draco gasps at the feeling of being breached, of having Harry’s finger invade his body. Harry can tell his body is fighting it, and he murmurs to Draco to relax. Draco looks at him like he’s mad, so Harry’s other hand starts slowly stroking his cock again. Draco’s head falls back once more, and Harry pushes in slightly further. 

Harry begins thrusting his single finger, pulling it out and shoving it back in slowly but harshly. Draco moans and writhes above him, his heels digging into Harry’s back as he wraps his legs around him. Harry stretches his tongue out to lick his hole again, running it around his own finger. He watches in amazement as his rim relaxes and loosens at his touch, and Harry twists his finger. 

Draco cries out, back arching slightly. 

“Mor— _ahhh_!” Draco says, breaking off as Harry thrusts inside. 

“More, huh,” Harry replies, slowing his finger down a bit. 

Draco huffs, giving in and saying _please_ almost instantly. Harry grins, pulling out to the tip and sliding a second finger in. They move easily, testimony to how long Harry has spent on this. He pumps them quickly, speeding up immediately. Draco calls out a mix of curses and Harry’s name as he begins scissoring his fingers, stretching him out further. Eventually Draco’s hole is relaxed enough to accomodate three fingers, and Harry takes great delight in driving them forward into his warm body. 

“Fuck! _More_ Harry _please_!” Draco moans as Harry grazes across his prostate. It turns him into a blubbering mess, and Harry takes pity on his abused hole. 

“What’s more to give you, Draco? A fourth finger?” Harry asks, teasing the muscle with his tongue. It twitches around his fingers, pulling a grunt from Harry. 

“Your cock!” Draco says, hips bucking into Harry’s hand. “If you don’t put your fucking cock in me—”

“Where are your manners, Draco?” Harry asks even as he pulls his fingers out. He flicks the cap open for the lube, pouring some more into his hand. The gel is light and cool, the contrast to his skin making Harry’s hand tingle. 

“Says the man who was literally just kissing my arse,” Draco retorts, clearly beyond caring about Harry’s ‘rules’. 

“Fine, if you don’t want to beg, I’ll just have to fuck you extra hard,” Harry decides, slicking his cock up. He squeezes the base, making sure to avoid the tip lest he come before even entering Draco’s body. 

Draco moans, nodding at Harry with wide eyes. Even if he doesn’t want to play along, Harry can’t imagine himself not giving him exactly what he wants. He doesn’t care if Draco doesn’t beg—while it’s amazing to hear _please_ s come from Draco’s mouth, he’d prefer his own name anyway. 

Harry grits his teeth, sinking them into his bottom lip as he lines his cock up. Draco’s hole twitches under his gaze, but Harry drags his eyes up Draco’s body to look him in the eyes. 

“You’re so beautiful,” Harry says, voice full of warmth. 

Draco moans, eyes screwing closed tight. “Just fuck me.”

“Look at me,” Harry urges, digging his fingers into Draco’s thighs. “If you don’t look at me, this isn’t happening.”

Draco rolls his eyes, but his lips curve into a fond smile that does nothing to hide his emotions. Perfect. 

Harry grins at him, places a kiss as high up as he can reach—Draco’s stomach, just below one of his scars—and lines his cock up again. He rubs it along Draco’s crease, dragging the lip of his hole with it. Draco moans, head falling back. His eyes remain open though, so Harry pushes forward. 

His cock slides in easily, the muscular ring slippery and well-stretched already. The head of his cock enters with minimal resistance, but even though Harry wants to just plunge in, he halts. Draco’s mouth has dropped open again, a groan stuck in his throat. Harry gives him time to adjust, running his hands up and down Draco’s thighs. 

“Keep going,” Draco says, breathing heavily. 

Harry swallows hard, pushing in a bit more and watching Draco’s face for any sign of discomfort. When there is none, Harry keeps going. He slides in half way, pausing to allow Draco more time. 

“Why’d you _stop_?” Draco whines the second he pauses, eyes wide and pleading as they look into Harry’s. 

They’re so bright, like liquid silver in the sun. Harry could drown in his eyes, but he’d like to fuck him first. Long and hard, fast and loving. 

“I thought you’d want—”

“I don’t need to adjust! I need you to _move_!” Draco cries, arms clawing at Harry’s back and trying to encourage said movement. 

Harry chuckles, shaking his head with a soft smile. “If you say so.”

He pushes in the rest of the way in one long thrust. Draco hisses as his cock drags along his skin, but Harry slides in until his hips touch Draco’s. His hole is so tight, so warm and wet. It feels like heaven, and Harry’s eyes squeeze closed as he tries not to come far too soon. 

Draco’s nails curl under and dig into him, and Harry forces himself to open his eyes to look at him. His mouth is open and panting, his tongue running along his pink lips. Harry thinks he’s gorgeous, incredibly captivating. He also thinks he’s going to die if he doesn’t move soon, even though he was the one to pause. 

“Fuck me Harry,” Draco says, pulling Harry back to the present. His voice is desperate, filled with want but also affection. It’s raw, powerful in it’s brokenness, and Harry can’t help it as he follows Draco’s command. 

He pulls out a little bit, thrusting back inside. Draco’s moan is cut off as Harry slams inside, and Harry wants to hear that strangled sound over and over for the rest of his life. Draco’s hole clenches around him, and Harry gasps at the constriction. He moves again, pulling out halfway before rocking back into Draco’s body. Harry hits his prostate, pulling a scream from Draco’s open mouth. Harry grins, his mission accomplished. Now he can focus on fucking him out of his mind. 

He pulls out to the very tip before slamming inside, his voice a guttural groan as he tries to speak. Draco cries out, nails scratching red lines down Harry’s back as he hits his prostate yet again. Harry fucks into him, long and fast, steady and sure even though his heart is an absolute mess of emotion. He is so captivated by this man, so incredibly gone with affection. Hell, with _love._

Harry loves this man, this beautiful man. He is so smart, incredible, gorgeous, sweet, thoughtful. Not to mention his perfect cock and hole, encasing Harry in a hot sheath. He thrusts in powerfully, unable to slow down now. He’s standing on the edge, looking down into it even while trying to walk back from it. He doesn’t want to come yet, he wants Draco to get there first. 

Harry’s hand loosens its grip on his thigh, dragging along Draco’s skin until it reaches his cock. Draco’s hand is already wrapped around it, but Harry pries it off. Draco’s eyes widen, but they darken even further as Harry replaces it with his own. 

“Fuck! I’m so— so close Harry,” he whimpers, voice breaking around the words. 

Harry pushes into his body again, his hand speeding up around Draco’s cock. He twists his wrist around the head, a sharp movement in time with his cock hitting his prostate. 

Draco comes with a scream, crying out Harry’s name and arching into him. He shakes, his hole contracting around Harry’s cock. Harry falls over the edge too, eyes fixed on Draco’s face. Ropes of his come splash into Draco’s body, Draco’s own come hitting Harry’s chest. He twitches as he keeps coming, his vision whiting out and the strength sapping from his bones. Sparks dance along his skin, and his eyes fall closed. 

He collapses onto Draco, crushing his legs and covering his own chest in sticky come. Harry doesn’t care though, pressing kisses all over Draco’s chest as he slowly pulls out. 

“Fuck,” Draco whimpers, head falling onto the pillows. His back arches again, his whole body contorting with aftershocks. Harry grins at him, a weak smile that is reflected back when Draco looks at him. 

“That was…”

“Insane,” Draco says, huffing out a breath. 

Harry nods, not able to find the words to agree in his state. He rolls off Draco and pulls him towards him. His heated skin rests against Harry’s, and he twists in his arms so they’re facing each other. 

“I know it’s ridiculously soon, but I need to say it,” Draco murmurs, eyes shining with affection and the after-effects of an orgasm. 

Harry hums, smiling softly at Draco. He thinks he knows what he’s going to say, and he really wants to hear it.

Draco swallows, Harry’s eyes tracking the movement of his Adam’s apple as it bobs. “I love you.”

Harry’s mouth moves into a grin, and he slams his lips onto Draco’s in a fierce kiss. Draco’s breath catches in his throat but he returns it; for a moment. 

“Well?” He asks, prodding Harry in the ribs. “Anything to say to that?”

Harry’s heart hammers in his chest, his mouth going dry. He wants to say it. Even though it could ruin him down the line, he wants to say it. “I…”

Draco smiles, nods, wraps his arms around his neck. 

Harry returns the smile, gathering his famous ‘Gryffindor courage’. Here goes nothing. 

“I love you too.”

Silence falls over both of them, and Harry worries he said the wrong thing. But then Draco is pulling him in for yet another kiss, and Harry melts against him. They love each other, and even though they only got together a few days ago, he knows they’re both being honest. It feels like heaven. Until he remembers they’re still covered in sweat and come. 

He slaps Draco’s arse lightly—being mindful of what it’s just been through—and hauls him up so he’s sitting. 

“Shower. Now.” Harry tugs on his hand, pulling him off the bed and crowding him into the bathroom. If this means he gets to shower with Draco, watching hot water and soap slide over his wet skin, so be it. That’s simply a positive side effect—not something planned at all. 

*~*~*~

“Come on, let’s go!” Draco shouts, his voice echoing from the front door into the bedroom. 

“Yeah yeah!” Harry calls back, stuffing more of his clothes into the wardrobe. 

He’s not sure how this will work. When they arrived, all their clothes were waiting for them here. Harry instinctively wants to bring them all with him when he leaves, but Draco thinks they’ll be transported with them. Either way, Harry wants them all in the closet. He’s not running the risk of losing anything just because Draco seems to think they’re on a deadline. 

Harry picks up the clothes they’d thrown off each other yesterday, his red hoodie that Draco stole in the early days, Draco’s blue trousers and black skinny jeans, and a pair of socks he’s never seen before in his life. He throws all of them into the wardrobe and slams the door shut. The sound bounces off the walls around him, and he’s positive Draco hears it. 

“ _Harry_ hurry up!” Draco shouts in a whiny voice. Anyone would think he’s missing out on something great! All he’s doing is ending their abrupt, unplanned, illegally arranged ‘holiday’. Okay, that doesn’t seem like a totally bad idea when put like that… 

Harry quickly scans the room again, making sure none of their belongings are still strewn about, and once he’s satisfied, he races out of the bedroom and towards Draco. His breath catches as he rounds the corner and sees him though. 

Draco is wearing the black coat again, his hair peeking out of a pale pink beanie. He looks stunning, like a high fashion runway model. Harry licks his lips subconsciously, causing a blush to rise on Draco’s cheeks. 

“Are you ready yet?” Draco asks, the floor around his feet littered with bags. 

“I think we’ve got everything, yes,” Harry replies, suddenly feeling underprepared. He doesn’t have any bags! Why does Draco have bags and he doesn’t?!

“Relax, would you?” Draco says, leaving the doorway to wrap his arms around Harry’s waist. “I can see you panicking. I’ve got everything here already.”

Harry swallows hard, his mouth suddenly dry. “Are you sure?”

Draco nods, a fond smile flickering across his face. “Yes, but to ease your mind… _accio._ ”

Draco’s spell radiates through the cottage, picking up anything that they think of as _theirs_. Nothing happens though. No banging as things fly into walls, no slamming doors as they try to get loose. Nothing. Draco’s right; everything’s already packed.

Harry sighs. “Thank you,” he says, pressing his nose against Draco’s. 

Draco chuckles, pulling back and picking up the bags the cottage must have supplied him with. He passes some to Harry, grabs his hand purely to hold it, and pulls him out of the cottage. 

They arrive in the courtyard a little while later, the sun shining through wispy clouds. Snow from yesterday covers the ground, watery and beginning to turn brown with mud. Harry runs his eyes over everything, trying to cement it in his memory. Maybe he could pull more memories out and make a collection for his pensieve? 

Draco, still holding his hand tightly despite the bitterly cold air, pulls him onto the pavement and towards the water fountain. The Cabinet is dusted with melting snow, but it still looks as imposing as ever. If Harry’s honest with himself, he’s surprised Draco is willing to go anywhere near it. It was extremely cruel of their friends to torment him with his past like this. 

Draco drops Harry’s hand and slides his own into his coat pocket. Harry instantly misses the warmth, clasping his hands together. He watches as Draco pulls out the cotton, leather, and bracelet, and places them in the flat palm of his hand. He whips his wand from its holster and points it at the purple and silver objects. Draco whispers an incantation of some kind, and golden magic spreads from his wand. It circles around the items, drawing their own blue magic from them and entwining with it. A muscle in Draco’s jaw twitches, the only outward sign of his concentration.

Harry moves forward, ducking behind the Cabinet and pulling the hidden compartment open. He slides back out of the way, heart pounding in his chest as Draco takes his place. He watches with wide eyes and sweaty palms as Draco carefully puts the items inside, and then waves his wand again. He pulls on the blue magic, the gold looping them all together like knitting wool. Draco swallows hard as they successfully meld together, and a wash of blue light spills forth from them. 

Draco hurriedly slides the drawer closed again, just in time to block the blinding light from escaping. Harry blinks rapidly, trying to clear his eyes from the sudden light and then subsequent lack of. He pulls his wand out of his coat pocket and flicks it, lifting all of their bags and belongings into the air. Draco rushes back around to the front and grips Harry tightly. He’s nervous, terrified even. Harry doesn’t blame him; he is too. 

“Let’s go,” he says, a tentative smile on his face. He doesn’t really feel it, but if it eases some of the tension Draco’s feeling, it’s worth it. 

Draco nods, squeezing his hand, and throws open the doors to the Vanishing Cabinet. It looks perfectly normal, but Draco stiffens. He raises his other hand and points at a string of magic falling from the top, just before it dissipates into nothing. Harry panics for a second, thinking it hasn’t worked, but Draco is already pushing their bags into it. He shrinks them further, making them minuscule and much easier to carry—and why hadn’t they done that in the first place?!—before tugging on Harry’s arm. 

Harry swallows hard, his stomach twisting, but follows the call. He kisses Draco briefly, a sweet press of lips, and climbs into the Cabinet’s main compartment. Draco follows a second later, squeezing into the tiny space. He pulls the door shut after himself, and then Harry’s falling through space.

*~*~*~

His stomach turns as he falls through flashes of colour, pink, blue, and yellow rushing past him. He lands with a thud on a hard floor, his body screaming with pain as he collides with what can only be another person. _Draco_. Harry’s chest burns as he scrabbles to stand up, praying that his glasses haven’t shattered with the impact. He hits his head on the ceiling of the Cabinet, and realises they are, in fact, still in one.

He looks around and sure enough, he’s crushed Draco underneath him. His heart stops as he falls back to his knees, rolling him over so Harry can see his face. 

“Are you okay?!” Harry murmurs, hands roaming over his face and cupping his cheek. 

“Never been better,” Draco jokes. Even though that clearly isn’t true, Harry helps him stand. If he’s well enough to joke he’s well enough to stand, in Harry’s opinion. 

He beams at Draco, staring into his bright silver eyes as if they hold the key to the world. Harry supposes they do, in this case. 

At Draco’s murmured count down from three, they push the Cabinet doors open slowly. Harry claps his hands over his ears as he registers the cheering and applause coming from the room outside. He steps out of the Cabinet first, pulling Draco out with him, before turning to the noise. His friends crowd the back wall, decked out in their silver and purple robes. They’re all wearing their bracelets, and suddenly Harry is rushed with fury. 

These people forced him into isolation, just before Christmas, with a man he supposedly hates. They set a trap for Draco where he could have easily died, pushed them together for their own interests, and broke numerous laws to do so! Robards, who is meant to be his role model as an Auror, _helped_ them! This whole thing is twisted and sick, and Harry’s breathing quickens into a harsh sound with anger. 

Draco’s hands find Harry’s waist, holding him steady. Harry whips his head around to stare incredulously at him. Does Draco not care? Is Draco over it already?! These people, _his_ friends too, did this! There’s no way he should look so happy. Yet he does, and Harry doesn’t know which reaction is right. He struggles with anger he hadn’t even realised he felt at the people he’s called friends for half his life. He’s been through a war with them! He thought they had his back! 

Harry’s hands curl into fists, ready to throw punches. He doesn’t need his wand to seriously mess them up. Draco’s hands move though, sliding down his sides and grabbing Harry’s fists. He holds them steady, his cold skin flooding Harry’s fried nerves. His breathing automatically slows at the proximity of Draco, his body relaxing against Harry’s will at his touch. Harry sucks in a breath, glaring his friends down. 

“Harry?” Someone— _Hermione—_ says from across the room. “Are you okay?”

Harry snaps. He jolts in Draco’s arms, trying to rush at her and show her just how _not_ _okay_ he is. Draco holds him back though, remarkably strong for his slim build. 

“Harry, you need to calm down,” Draco murmurs in his ear. His breath is warm against his skin, pulling goosebumps to his arms and neck. 

Draco breathes steadily against him, and Harry’s own breathing slowly evens out, timing itself with Draco’s. He doesn’t want to be calm, he wants to rage, but he can’t. These are his _friends_. He needs to hear them out first, before tearing them apart for what they thought was okay. 

“There we go,” Draco murmurs, his hands rubbing over Harry’s chest. When he dropped Harry’s hands for his torso, Harry isn’t sure, but he relaxes into the touch. “Much better,” Draco says, nuzzling into the side of his head. 

“So it worked?!” Parkinson shouts, grin bursting forth onto her face as she takes the scene in. Zabini and Nott next to her react instantaneously, Zabini’s hand slapping over her mouth and Nott moving in front of her in a protective stance. 

“Not the time,” Ron snarls, pushing the Slytherins aside to approach Harry and Draco. “I’m sorry mate. What we did was uncalled for, I see that now.”

His words break through the remaining fog in Harry’s mind, finally clearing away the cover of anger. 

“Why did you do it then,” he seethes, voice not quite under control yet. 

“Because we were all sick of your tension and pining and wanted to do something about it,” Seamus says, stepping forward next to Ron. “We never truly believed it would cause either of you any harm.”

“It didn’t,” Draco replies, moving so he’s next to Harry. “Nothing permanent that couldn’t be healed.”

Harry turns to stare at Draco. He can’t believe what he’s hearing. He turns his glare to the group of Slytherins, burning holes into their heads. “You trapped him in the bottom of a hole! For days! How is that not harmful?!” 

Nott’s eyes widen, his face paling. “D-days?” He mumbles. “How many?”

Harry grits his teeth. “Three nights. In rain and snow.”

Zabini blanches. “I’m so sorry Draco, that wasn’t the intention at all.”

Draco just shakes his head. “I’m over it. Harry found me and healed me, and it was weeks ago. I’m sick of thinking about it.”

Harry feels him shudder at the words, the movement not noticeable to the others across from them. He knows Draco can’t mean that, remembers the shaking man he’d pulled from that hole. He also knows Draco’s too proud to be affected by it in front of his friends. Bloody Slytherins. 

Hermione steps forward, walking right up to Harry and placing her hands on both his shoulders. She ignores Ron’s cautious words, looking right into Harry’s eyes. 

“I can assure you Harry, Draco would never have been permanently injured. There were so many spells and charms in place, it was impossible for him to come out of it dead.”

Harry’s chest heaves, but his walls break down as he looks into her brown eyes. He collapses against her, and she quickly pulls him into a tight hug. She doesn’t let him go for a long while, and Harry breathes in the smell of her conditioner and perfume. He hadn’t realised just how much he’d missed it. 

“Do you have any questions about it?” She asks as she eventually pulls away. 

Harry shakes his head. He’s too overwhelmed by everything, the warring emotions inside him and the unlikely team in front of him. Draco nods instantly though. 

“I think we’ve figured everything out, but I’d like it confirmed.”

Draco thoughtfully casts a _muffliato_ at Harry, correctly assuming that he doesn’t want to listen as it all unfolds before him again. He watches them talking though, watches as Draco nods and listens attentively. Trust him to care more about being correct than what they put him through. Harry shakes his head at himself. That’s not true, it’s just the image he’s putting forth for his friends. He wishes Draco wouldn’t, but it’s the only reason they didn’t end up on the ground in a ball of fists, so he doesn’t really think it’s his place to say anything. 

Eventually the charm is cancelled, and noise rushes back to his ears. 

“Tell Harry what you just told me,” Draco says, voice substantially angrier than earlier. 

Hermione gulps but turns to face Harry. An apologetic smile lifts her lips. “The cold charm wasn’t the only one affecting you both,” she starts, failing to ease Harry into it. It feels like a train crashing into his body. “There was also a very slight memory loss charm…”

Harry grits his teeth, feeling anger rising in his heart again. “There was _what_? Why?”

Someone Harry doesn’t recognise steps forward, and he realises it must be who Draco referred to as Sam. “It was to create tension between you if you didn’t figure out your emotions first. Draco can be rather bull-headed for an Unspeakable, so there needed to be something in case he failed to act.”

Harry gapes. “You wanted us to _fight_ if we didn’t figure ourselves out?”

Sam shakes their head, mouth turning into a small smirk. “We wanted you to _fuck_.”

Harry closes his eyes, needing the darkness in order to think. “You’re telling me, you deliberately made it harder to communicate, so we’d have sex?”

Sam shrugs. “Did it work?”

Harry’s immediate reaction is to scream ‘no’, but it didn’t _not_ work either. He can’t say _nothing_ though, because that will give them all an answer anyway. 

Draco comes to his rescue. “I’m not _totally_ oblivious, you know.”

Sam raises an eyebrow. “Aren’t you?”

He shakes his head. 

“Who made the first move then?”

“Who says we’re together?”

Sam cocks their head. “Your hands all over him to calm him down, and your neck covered in _marks._ ”

Draco huffs.

“It was Potter, wasn’t it?”

Draco sighs but nods. Sam grins and barks out a laugh. 

“We are all incredibly sorry about what we did,” Zabini pipes up, finally removing his hand from Parkinson’s mouth. “It was uncalled for, and there was probably a much better way to do it.”

“That said,” Parkinson cuts in, “I’m not too upset about it. You two have finally come to your senses, _and_ no one's hurt!”

Harry scowls at her but Draco holds onto his hand tightly. 

“Let’s give them some room,” Hermione says, more of a command than a suggestion. Harry is suddenly _positive_ that she was the leader he saw that day in the forest. He’s surprised she had it in her, but clearly her morals aren’t what Harry thought they were. 

The others in the room all disperse, slowly trickling into the rest of the department. Harry catches Robards’ eye, and notes with a small satisfaction that he looks extremely uncomfortable. His head is also remarkably bald, and Harry feels like snickering at it. A dark part inside himself is pleased that he’s being punished in some small way for his part in this. When Luna follows after him though, hand in hand with Neville, Harry’s heart picks back up. This mess of an experiment has clearly helped some other people get over themselves too. 

“Let’s go home,” Draco murmurs into his ear, his hands roaming up Harry’s chest. 

Harry’s breath catches at the word, but then he remembers that they don’t live together. “Where though? I don’t want to leave you.” 

“Yours tonight. It’s closer than my flat.”

Harry doesn’t think it’s closer at all, but he isn’t going to argue. He turns around to look at Draco, wraps his arms around his waist, and tries to Apparate them to 12 Grimmauld Place. 

It doesn’t work. Of course it doesn’t work! It’s impossible to Apparate from the Ministry! Harry sighs, releases Draco’s waist, and steps away from him again. Draco is looking at him fondly, shaking his head like he so often does. 

“Let’s walk to an Apparition point, eh?” Draco asks, slinging his arm over Harry’s shoulders and gently guiding him to the door their friends just went through. 

*~*~*~

The streets of London are crowded, bustling despite the late hour. There are lights up everywhere, setting the city in a gold and multicoloured glow. Some of the buildings are decked out in Christmas lights, covered in them to the point of ridiculousness. Harry doesn’t care though; the fact that these people went to such lengths to celebrate and cheer everyone up is worth the few garish overly-done apartments. 

Draco guides him around London as they walk through the Muggle side, winding them down alleys and along the back streets. He knows his way around, which means Harry only has a few seconds to take everything in. He’s never been in this part of the city, sticking to the secluded parts where he won’t be followed as easily. Honestly, he really only comes to London for work. Although, since Draco lives here, he might be in Muggle London a lot more in the future. 

They walk past shopping strips, restaurants, cinemas, and buskers, crowds of people with them every step of the way. Eventually, Draco pulls him out of a surprisingly busy alley and towards the Tower Bridge. Harry has seen pictures of it before—Ron and Hermione walk the streets quite frequently at night, bringing him back photos of their time together—but he’s never actually been there in real life. 

Draco pulls him to a stop, a scandalised expression on his face. Harry pauses to look at him, deciding he’s more beautiful than the lit up bridge before him. It’s a weird thought, but he’d much rather stare at Draco. 

“The tree…” Draco mutters, and Harry follows his gaze with a raised eyebrow. 

“It’s a tree?” Harry asks, not quite seeing the problem. 

“It should be decorated!” Draco bursts, suddenly angry. His hands ball into fists, trying to restrain his emotions. 

Harry slides his hands free of Dracos waist and grabs his balled fists, holding them steady in his. “Why don’t you decorate it then?” Harry suggests, looking into Draco’s eyes and trying to calm him. He’s probably worked up over their friends and _not_ the tree, but either way Harry needs to calm him down.

Draco perks up instantly, latching onto Harry’s idea. “Let’s do that!” Draco murmurs excitedly, pulling his wand out of his holster but being careful to keep it out of sight. How he manages, Harry has no idea. 

Draco seems to think for a moment, his head tipped to the side in concentration. Then, he holds on to Harry’s hands tighter, and magic whips out of his wand. It’s faint, so faint Harry doesn’t think anyone else sees it as it flies over to the bare tree. A second later, some of the pines slowly turn into tinsel. The cones shift into baubles as the magic spirals up, almost like it does in children’s cartoons. 

Once the magic rockets back into Draco’s wand, knocking him into Harry’s chest and making them both wobble, Harry takes the tree's new appearance in. It’s wrapped in lights, silver and blue sparkling up and down the tree. Silver tinsel wraps around it, the baubles shifting in different colours of blue and purple. Harry thinks it looks gorgeous. 

“There you go,” he murmurs into Draco’s ear. “It’s beautiful. Just like you.”

He feels Draco’s skin warm as he blushes, and he presses a kiss to it. “Let’s go home.”

Draco nods, holding his hand and pulling him into the alley they just came out of, and into the Apparition point. 


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas!

****

[Santa (from his chin to his thighs) placing gold and red wrapped presents under a tree]

**December 25th 2003 - Thursday**

Draco wakes up in Harry’s bed, warm, free, and extremely comfortable. He can’t believe they’ve made it, can’t believe they are finally out of the enigma that has been the last 24 days. The sunlight doesn’t quite reach him, but he doesn’t mind. Not when Harry’s arms are wrapped around him. He feels so safe here, lying with his head on Harry’s shoulder. They must have turned in the night, as he’s now using Harry as a pillow instead of being spooned. 

Harry starts to wake next to him, and Draco presses soft kisses to his chest and neck. His mind flickers with images from last night, arriving to find his friends cheering for them. He was taken aback, to say the least. But Harry had _snapped_ , and his emotions were more important to deal with. Draco had been as equally horrified as Harry had been, but he’d rather play the long game. He’d much prefer slowly turning on his friends, watching the light flicker out of their eyes as they realise he’s messed them up. 

He won’t though. He’s not anywhere near as angry as he could have been; how could he be, when he gets to wake up in Harry’s arms every day because of them? Do they deserve _some_ revenge, yes. Should their lives be ruined because of it, no. He’s not sure what he’s going to do, he can’t just hit them like Harry had tried to do. He needs to find a more… subtle way to show his displeasure. 

“Merry Christmas,” he murmurs instead, turning his gaze up to look at Harry. 

His eyes blink open, a sliver of light reflecting off the bright green of his iris. “Draco,” he returns, smiling softly. He looks at him like he is the answer to all of life’s mysteries, and Draco shifts at how exposed it makes him feel. How bare he is to Harry. He’d never change it though, not when he feels so comfortable with him as well. 

“Do you want breakfast?” Draco asks, rolling over so his head nestles under Harry’s jaw.

“I’d rather give you a gift, I think,” Harry murmurs, pressing a kiss to the top of Draco’s head. His hands slide into his hair, playing with the strands and making Draco sigh in contentment. He loves his hair being played with, and he’d be more than happy to sit here all day. 

“What is it?” Draco asks, trying not to yawn as he leans into the caress. 

Harry pulls his hand from Draco’s hair and taps him lightly on the head. “No use telling you when I could show you.” He nudges Draco off him and onto the pillows. 

Draco huffs at how easily he was pushed away. Although, it means he can watch Harry’s arse as he moves to the other side of the room, and he’s not upset about that. Harry bends down to rummage through one of the bags, wiggling his arse in Draco’s direction. He feels his mouth go dry as he watches, his cock twitching in interest. Not today though, not on Christmas when they have so much they need to do. He can wait. 

“Here you go,” Harry says as he walks back to the bed. He’s holding a small parcel wrapped in paper, a white ribbon holding it in place. Draco doesn’t remember it from when he showed Harry the wrapping charm, which would explain why it’s kind of lumpy. How Harry managed that is beyond Draco, but then again, he’s never tried doing it by hand… He smiles at the prospect of Harry cursing and screaming as he wraps it for him though. 

“Well, I guess I’d better get yours too then, hey?” Draco replies, rolling off the bed.

Harry beams at him, placing the gift down and pulling Draco into him for a kiss. His lips are rough against Draco’s, but it’s intoxicating. Especially when they’re used to open his ars— No. He does _not_ need to be thinking about that on Christmas morning. 

Draco pulls himself away and reaches for his wand on the floor, picking it up and _accio_ ’ing his own present towards him. The small parcel flies into his outstretched hands, elegantly wrapped in deep purple paper. He’d thought the colour was ironic, and therefore an opportunity unable to be missed. 

Harry groans as he sees it, but kisses him again to show Draco that he doesn’t quite mean it. Draco smiles softly at him, sitting next to him on the bed with their gifts in the middle. 

“You first,” Draco says, prodding his present closer to Harry. 

Harry nods slowly, grabbing the parcel and inspecting it closely. Seemingly satisfied that it isn’t going to explode with confetti or shoot a hex him, he pulls the ribbon loose. The silver fabric—also a conscious decision on Draco’s behalf, to further rile Harry up—is thrown behind them somewhere, and he starts carefully unfolding the paper. Draco wants to urge him to hurry up, but if Harry wants to take his time, who is Draco to stop him? 

Harry finishes on the paper, letting it fall off the present hidden inside. Draco watches with baited breath as he picks up the pen hidden inside, turning it over with an interested gaze. His eyes fall to the different inks lined up inside the paper, and it seems to click in his mind. 

“A fountain pen?” Harry asks, his voice a murmur.

“Yeah,” Draco says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I wasn’t sure what to get you, and I know how much you like to write, so I thought…”

“Thank you,” Harry replies, smile lighting up his face. “That’s so thoughtful.”

Draco grins back. 

“Now open yours.” Harry nods to the parcel of red paper in front of Draco, his eyes bright. 

Draco swallows hard, pulling the gift towards him. As he does, he realises that there are _two_ things inside the delicate paper. Draco looks up at Harry, searching for his eyes under his mop of hair. Harry nods again, smiling and gesturing for him to open it. He doesn’t look at all nervous, so Draco grits his teeth and undoes the white ribbon. It falls loose easily, and he throws it next to the silver one on the floor. Now all that’s stopping him is the red paper, and he tears into it. 

It comes apart quickly beneath his fingers, ripping with a satisfying sound. Harry seems to hold back a laugh at Draco’s uncivilised opening, but he doesn’t care. It would feel stilted if he did it neatly, as if honouring his father’s memory. That’s not something he wants to do, especially not with Harry. 

With the paper open, Draco finds a book staring up at him. It’s one of the books from the village that he’d been looking at but hadn’t ended up buying. Harry had clearly remembered, and gone back to get it for him. He feels his chest clench painfully with an emotion he can’t name, and he picks it up carefully. It’s a gorgeous, leather bound book, the title and author written in black thread. Draco looks back at Harry, finding his eyes already on him. He smiles at Harry, trying to show him how much it means. 

“You’re not done yet,” Harry says, voice thick with something he’s not saying. 

Draco tears his eyes away, remembering about the second item. He places the book down on the bed and opens the wrapping paper further. Inside, he finds what looks to be a wallet. It’s made of beautiful white leather, his given name inscribed on the front in blue. He picks it up, running his fingers over the soft material. It’s smooth, light under his fingers. The colour almost blends into his skin with how pale he is, and he chuckles at the idea of that. He really should get some more sun. 

“Open it,” Harry says, nudging Draco’s arm. 

Draco swallows but nods, heart racing as he slides his finger into the opening. He pushes it away, looking into the wallet. Inside there is a £50 Muggle note, but that’s not what catches his eye. There’s a second inscription, this one written in black. It reads ‘ _lux in tenebris_ ’, and Draco feels his eyes burn as he translates what it means. 

“Light in the darkness…” He murmurs, lifting a hand to brush away unshed tears. He flicks his gaze back up at Harry, finding wet tracks falling from his eyes down to his chin. 

Draco’s heart beats rapidly even as his breathing slows, and he reaches for Harry instantly. He wraps his arms around his neck and waist, holding him tight. He presses his head next to Harry’s, allowing him to turn his face into his neck. Harry cries gently against his skin, and Draco just holds him.

He’d realised Harry wasn’t in a great place these last few years, he’d _known_ he wasn’t doing anything to help himself. He hadn’t realised how much of an impact _he_ had made on him though. It makes him want to beam at the idea that Harry holds him that dearly, but also to break down at the thought of how broken Harry believes himself to be.

Draco pulls away, staring into Harry’s eyes. “Thank you,” he murmurs, voice steady but soft. “You have no idea what this means to me.”

Harry’s smile is wobbly, and Draco raises a hand to wipe his tears away. “I’m glad you like it,” he says, eyes shining with happiness even as he cries. 

Draco nods and pulls him close again. 

“I have something else for you too,” Draco mumbles a little while later, once Harry has calmed down a bit.

“Oh?”

Draco pulls back and gets up, walking carefully over to the collection of bags on the floor. He’s not certain which one it’s in, but he can’t risk summoning it. Draco sighs and falls to his knees—ignoring Harry’s wrangled gasp—and opens the one closest to him. He rummages through it, moving things aside with little care. To Draco’s great surprise, it _is_ in this bag. Eyes widening, he very slowly and carefully extracts the tiny canvas, being extremely cautious of not damaging it. Rocking back onto his knees, Draco runs his eyes over it. Satisfied that it hasn’t been harmed, he rises onto his feet and puts it back to its original size. 

Draco smiles as he looks at it, making sure Harry can’t see it. Nodding to himself, he carries it over to the bed, turning it around so only the back framing is visible. 

“Is that what I think it is?” Harry asks, voice reverent and quietly excited. 

Draco nods, sitting down next to him again and resting the canvas on the floor. “It is.”

Harry shakes his head in amazement. “You didn’t have to…”

“I wanted to.”

He watches as Harry takes a deep breath in before reaching a hand out. Harry runs his fingers along the top edge, a faint blue colour that gives nothing away. He sucks in another breath and carefully holds onto the canvas, turning it around so he can see it. 

Harry gasps as his eyes run over it, trying to take it all in at once. The cottage fills half the canvas, the detailed wood of the walls smiling up at them. Snow dusts the roof and window ledges, littering the path and grass around it. The forest taking up the right side of the canvas is dark but beautiful, the path winding across the painting and joining them together. 

“Draco…” Harry murmurs, voice worshipful even as his eyes linger on the canvas. “This is absolutely incredible.”

Draco preens under his compliment, still trying not to appear _too_ proud of it. Harry doesn’t need to know how much time it took or how much Draco wanted to rip his hair out while making it. 

“Is that us?” Harry asks, hand hovering over one of the windows. 

“It is,” Draco confirms, looking at the silhouette he’d added of two people slow dancing. 

Harry’s hand seeks out his own, holding onto it tightly as he continues taking the painting in. 

“Do you like it?” Draco asks, needing to make absolutely sure. 

“Of course I do, you daft prat!” Harry says, squeezing his hand firmly. “It’s a masterpiece.”

Draco sighs in relief. He’s so happy to hear those words. “Wait one moment,” he says, searching for his wand again. 

At one point, he had decided not to include any magic for Harry’s painting. He had wanted it to be a display of how much he cares, not how well he can manipulate strings of magic. However, his usual urge to make things even prettier had won out. 

Draco picks his wand up with a triumphant ‘yes’ and catches Harry’s eye. Now knowing that Harry’s watching him, he waves it slowly over the canvas. The pale blue sky darkens out, becoming a deep almost-black blue. The snow clouds dissipate into a sky full of stars, twinkling with magic. Harry’s breath catches as he watches the change in light. 

“You didn’t…” he breathes, eyes flicking between the painting and Draco. 

“I did.” 

The cottage looks majestic in the night, candles appearing as the sky darkens and covering the wooden walls in dancing fire light. It looks like something out of a fairytale; Draco supposes this _did_ have a fairytale ending. 

*~*~*~

“You should come to the Burrow for dinner with me!” Harry exclaims an hour later. They’re sitting in the drawing room, eating a light breakfast. Harry hadn’t seen the point of anything fancy, since he’s going to be eating a Mrs Weasley Feast, and Draco because he’s going to see his mother. 

“I wouldn’t want to intrude,” Draco argues, sipping his coffee. 

“You wouldn’t be! They’ll all know we’re together by now, so it would be odd if you didn’t show up.”

“Are you sure? How do you even know they’d want me there? After what I did—”

Harry glares at him, eyes narrowing until Draco falls silent. “They will _love_ you Draco. You’re smart, beautiful, witty, sharp. I could go on forever. But you see, even if they didn’t like you—which they will—they’d put up with you because you make me _happy._ ”

Draco nods slowly, knowing there’s no point in arguing. Harry would just drag him along even if he refused. At least if he agrees, he’ll avoid upsetting Harry. 

“Fine. On the condition that you come with me to Mother’s for morning tea.” 

Draco holds his breath as Harry takes in the request, his eyebrows rising up his forehead. He doesn’t know why he said that. There’s no way in hell Harry would willingly set foot in the Manor, would want to go with him to the place Granger was tortured, where Dobby was killed. Draco holds his hands up, shaking his head. 

“That was stupid, I’m sorry, you don’t—”

“Draco,” Harry cuts in, voice gentle. “I’ll go.”

“I know, I shouldn’t have said anyth— Wait. _You’ll come with me_?” 

Harry nods. “If you’re coming to the Burrow, I’ll go to the Manor. Fair’s fair.”

Draco can’t believe it. “That’s different though. The Manor is… tainted.”

“I don’t care,” Harry says, holding on tightly to his hand. “I love you, Draco Malfoy. That means acknowledging your past and your family, and making peace with it. If you want me there today, I’ll come with you.”

Draco gulps, sucking in a breath. He nods, leaning in to hug Harry tightly. He doesn’t know what he did to deserve such an amazing man, but he is incredibly happy he has him. 

*~*~*~

A couple of hours later, he’s tugging Harry’s hand and pulling him into the Floo. The green fire licks at his dress robes, but as he walks steadily out the other side, he’s pleased to note that he isn’t covered in ash. Harry is another story though, with ash scattered over his shoulders and in his hair. Draco bites back a laugh and flicks his wand, vanishing the dust from him. 

“Draco dear!” His mother exclaims, wandering into view with her hands outstretched. She’s wearing traditional robes as always, charcoal grey sitting across her pale skin. Underneath the grey though, a blush pink is visible as she moves. 

“Mother,” he replies, pulling her into a stiff embrace before letting her go. 

“Mr Potter,” she says, turning to shake Harry’s hand. 

Harry looks slightly puzzled for a second, before doing what’s expected of him. “Good morning Mrs Malfoy.”

“We’re sitting in the atrium today boys,” Draco’s mother announces, leading them through the winding corridors. 

Draco glances around the Manor as he walks through it, taking it all in. His mother has clearly had renovations done, trying to mask the dark magic that still lingers over every surface. It pulls goosebumps to his skin, but thankfully his robes cover them from view. Harry holds firmly onto his hand, his thumb massaging the skin gently. He’s wearing robes too, at Draco’s request. They’re black on top with the under layer a deep Gryffindor red. There’s no mistaking who this man is or what he stands for, even while under the Malfoy Manor roof. 

Eventually they arrive at the atrium, and Draco looks around in wonder. He really needs to come to the Manor more often, visit his mother and see what she’s doing to the building. He isn’t fond of the ancestral home—quite the opposite, really—but it’s where his mother lives. If she keeps changing it as much as she has since the last time he was here, it will be a completely different place in a few years. It’s a shame no one else will ever live in it. 

“Take a seat gentlemen, the food should appear any moment now,” his mother says, sitting in the chair closest to the little water feature. The table is circular; no one is able to sit at the head, so they’re all equal while eating. It’s a very small detail, but Draco smiles softly at his mother for taking the time to remove the unnecessary power imbalance. 

“Merry Christmas, Mum,” he says, reaching across the table to squeeze her hand. 

“Merry Christmas, Narcissa,” Harry echoes, his head tipping back to admire the oak tree that somehow fits inside the middle of the building. 

It’s majestic, its life energy slowly unravelling the years tainted with dark magic. The tree is a nice touch, and Draco allows his eyes to roam over it too. 

The food arrives on the table, a platter of fruit and sandwiches appearing out of nowhere. Draco makes a mental note to thank the house elves, even though they won’t appreciate the gesture. Once the food is eaten, tea is brought out along with an array of small cakes. Then it’s time for gifts, and Draco has no idea what to expect. Normally, there’d be dozens of people here, with all the presents on a table divvied up by the house elves. With only three people in total though, he doesn’t quite think that’s necessary. 

As it turns out, his mother has hidden her gifts for them in a basket hanging from the oak tree. How she knew to buy something for Harry, Draco doesn’t think he’ll ever find out. She’s not one to reveal her secrets, not even to her own son. 

Harry finds the basket first, calling Draco over. It’s beautiful, hand-woven with ribbons winding through the bamboo. Draco’s heart clenches as he sees the two presents, sitting side-by-side in the tiny basket. He takes the moment, hidden from his mother by the tree, to kiss Harry gently. Harry’s hands rise up to his jaw, holding him in place for a second. When he pulls away, Harry smiles at him so sweetly he can’t think for a moment. 

Once they go back around to join his mother, he pulls the canvas for her out of his robe pockets, bringing it back to its original size. He turns it so she can’t see it, and opens his gift first. 

It’s a bottle of his favourite cologne, which he’d just run out of before being whisked away. He smiles at her, thanking her while watching Harry open his own. It’s also a glass bottle, but instead of cologne it’s—

“Mum…” Draco says, voice almost like a growl. 

She shrugs, an elegant lift of her shoulders. “I thought it was good.”

“It’s lube,” Draco accuses, eyes dropping back to the bottle. 

“I figured, since you two have finally gotten your act together, you might need it.”

“Mother!” Draco’s head drops into his hands, but he doesn’t know what else he expected. She’s always been like this, bluntly honest to her son when it suits her. 

Harry looks like he doesn’t know how to react, so Draco just takes the bottle off him and slides it—along with his new cologne—into his pocket to be dealt with later. 

Draco sighs, turning back to his mother. “You’re lucky I’ve already _made_ what I’m giving you, otherwise I wouldn’t have.”

She just shrugs again, smirking. “Let me see it then, dear.”

Draco chews the inside of his cheek and lifts the canvas, turning it around so she can see the narcissus blooming across it. 

Her eyes widen, the grey lightening into silver as she examines the painting. She lifts a finger, tracing it carefully over the paint. Draco’s glad he added the extra wards onto _all_ of the canvases, otherwise she’d be undoing all of his hard work in a matter of seconds. 

“This is gorgeous Draco,” she whispers, taking it from his hands and holding it up herself. “Thank you.”

Draco just nods, glad she seems to like it. 

“I’m going to hang it in the bedroom.”

His stomach blooms with happiness at the prospect, and he allows a smile to grace his features. He’s made it off the corridor wall.

*~*~*~

The gathering at the Weasleys’ is a much more relaxed affair. Harry had persuaded him into jeans and a t-shirt—the pink one, which Harry apparently likes quite a bit—and had told him in no uncertain terms not to bother with a bottle of wine. Draco feels out of his depth approaching the Burrow, unsure of his welcome. What if they hate him? They probably _will_ considering his actions in the war and the part he played in Fred’s death, no matter how indirect. 

“Quit your worrying,” Harry says, wrapping an arm around his shoulders as they walk. The gravel road crunches under their feet, and Draco finds himself focusing on that instead of on the building in front of them. 

“They’ll love you Draco.”

“I’m not so sure,” he murmurs, eyes down on the road. 

Harry just squeezes him gently, and then it’s too late to back out. He watches as Harry raises his fist to knock on the door, forcing a polite smile onto his face. First impressions are important, even though he doesn’t think there’s anything he can do to improve the way they already think of him.

“Harry dear!” Mrs Weasley cries as she opens the door. She immediately pulls Harry into a crushing hug, and Draco watches awkwardly as he melts into it. 

When she finally releases him a few seconds later, she surprises Draco by reaching out to shake his hand. Draco clasps it firmly but not too tight, not knowing how to react to anything that’s happening. 

“Draco, lovely to see you,” she says before stepping back and ushering them inside. 

It’s like a sound bomb went off, conversations and music and squealing filling his ears the second they’re off the threshold. There must have been some serious charms on the front door to keep all of it contained, and Draco has to resist the very strong urge to cover his ears. 

“There they are!” One of the brothers (George?) calls out, turning everyone’s attention to them. 

“Harry!” Hermione calls out, racing towards him and pulling him into a hug before he can protest. She seems to realise her possible mistake as she steps back, eyes suddenly unsure. “How are you feeling?” She asks cautiously.

Harry swallows, but his hand is back in Draco’s and he squeezes it gently. “Better. Much better.”

“I’m glad,” Hermione says sincerely, before turning to Draco. “I hope you’re okay too?”

Draco just nods, not trusting himself to speak. 

“Great!” She says. “Ron’s dying to see you both.”

Hermione ushers them further into the house, past crowds of people Draco vaguely recognises but who definitely recognise _him_. It’s slightly unnerving, but he’d better get used to it if he’s going to be with Harry, and _nothing_ could make him walk away. 

Three hours and a literal _feast_ later, everyone is gathered in the small living room. People are sitting on the sofas, stretched out on the floor, perching on tables, and milling around in the doorways. They barely fit, but no one seems to mind. It’s so different to anything Draco’s family ever did, but he thinks this is more natural. More open, happier. Harry certainly seems to be comfortable, his arms wrapped around Draco and his chin resting on his head. It can’t be a nice angle, but Harry doesn’t seem to mind. 

“Harry, this one’s for you,” Mr Weasley says, passing over a present from the massive pile to him. 

Harry takes it with a ‘thank you’ and a grin, tearing into it instantly. It’s a woollen sweater, dark blue with an orange ‘H’ stitched onto the front. Draco doesn’t think it’s that impressive, but Harry tears up and has to brush them away before they land on the jumper. That’s when Draco realises that it’s a _Weasley jumper._ Everyone in the family gets one, so it’s Mrs Weasley’s way of reassuring Harry that he’s a part of the family. Draco’s heart clenches at how nice that is. 

“Draco, here’s yours,” Mr Weasley announces, passing a smaller gift over to him. 

Draco accepts it with wide eyes. “I get something?” He asks quietly, and Harry just nods softly. He swallows hard, opening the paper with great care. A strip of dark pink wool falls out onto his hand. It’s so incredibly soft, and he holds it up to look at it. It’s a scarf; a long, soft, warm scarf in a colour that compliments his skin perfectly. 

“Thank you,” he says, voice reverent as he wraps it around his neck. It’s not a Weasley jumper, but it’s _something_ , which is more than he was ever expecting. “Thank you so much.”

*~*~*~

The end of the day brings Harry wrapped around Draco, hands under his shirt and dragging along his skin. Draco sighs and leans into the caress, dropping his new book down onto his chest. He leans up to kiss Harry, but then the Floo in his flat chimes and the flames turn green. 

“Harry dear? Is this where you are?” A voice Draco doesn’t recognise asks into the living room. 

“I’m here, Andromeda,” Harry replies, untangling himself from Draco and moving to crouch before the fire. “What’s up?”

“I was just going to give you Teddy for a while if you were interested.”

Draco’s jaw drops open, and he sits up straight. 

“I would _love_ that, but Draco Malfoy is here too, and…” Harry says, voice trailing off at the end. Draco sits on the sofa silently, waiting for the invitation to be retracted at the knowledge of his presence. 

“Of course he is silly! It’s his flat! Now, let me through.” Andromeda tuts at him to hurry up, and Draco rushes to his feet. He still doesn’t have much powder left in the bowl, but he manages to scrape up enough for her to come though. 

The old woman steps out of his fireplace not a second later, a five year old with teal hair holding onto her hand. Harry immediately moves over to him, lifting the boy up and pressing kisses all over his face. Draco stands awkwardly off to the side, watching the scene unfold. 

“Good evening, Draco,” Andromeda says, lifting her hand for him to shake. 

Draco blinks but takes it in his, shaking it. “Good evening.”

“That’s your cousin over there,” she says, tipping her head to Teddy as if he isn’t aware. “You should probably go get to know him.”

Draco doesn’t know what to say. He’d thought she hated him, had thought there was no way she’d trust him with her grandson. He had truly believed his family’s cut ties would ruin all chances with his cousin, but clearly he was wrong. Clearly, she believes he is better than his parents, and that he deserves a chance. 

He grins at her, not bothering to hide how much that means to him. She shoos him along, and he takes a tentative step towards Harry and his tiny cousin. As he approaches and takes a look at Teddy, he sees the child’s hair and eyes shift. His hair turns platinum blond, gentle curls raking through it. His eyes are the same startling green colour that Harry’s are, and the result is a boy that could very well be _theirs._ He doesn’t know how to react, but as he crouched down and introduces himself, he can’t help thinking how marvellous it is.

*~*~*~

**December 1st 2009 - Tuesday**

Harry looks over the table at Starry Night, a new pub in Diagon Alley. His friends are sitting on both sides, happily chatting away to each other about random nonsense. Harry grins at how well they all fit in together, and thinks back on a time when they most certainly had not. 

Ron and Hermione are talking quietly together, baby Rose on Hermione’s lap and playing with her curly hair. As he watches, Hermione gently untangles her daughter's fingers, all the while listening to Ron talk about something. Harry beams at the couple, remarkably pleased that they are still together. He’s always sentimental on Christmas these days, now that he has a reason to like it and someone to share it with.

Dean and Seamus are talking too, but it looks more like all their energy is put into restraining themselves from snogging at the table. Harry couldn’t believe it when they’d gotten together, but now he sees how perfect they are with each other. Neville and Luna are next to them, discussing the effect of mistletoe on Nargles, and why it’s so addicting to them. Harry shakes his head at what a cute couple they make, before his eyes inevitably seek out Draco’s.

Draco is already watching him, smiling fondly as Harry takes in the other couples around the table. Harry grins at him, squeezing his hand and lifting it to his mouth. Draco’s returning beam takes Harry’s breath away, and he has to close his eyes for a moment. Even after being married for two years, and together for another four, Harry still finds it hard to breathe around him. 

He turns his gaze away from Draco after giving him another smile and receiving a dazzling one in exchange. He finds Pansy talking to Blaise, and feels an odd rush of affection for them both. Pansy hasn’t found a girlfriend yet—which surprises Harry, since she seems to have no trouble taking girls _home_ ; then again, maybe she’s just not looking for a relationship right now—and Blaise is just as single as he ever has been, so they end up spending quite a bit of time together. With everyone else around the table in long-term relationships, Harry would think they’d feel a bit left out. With the rate they talk to each other though, Harry doesn’t think that’s the case. 

The most surprising couple by far though, has to be Theo and Alex. Harry had been shocked when they’d announced they’d gotten together, but he is so incredibly happy they did. Theo had been looking for someone ever since he realised he was bi, so to see him so happy with Alex is truly amazing. When Draco had finally confessed Sam’s real name, Harry had shaken his head in wonder. He loves his husband, he really does, but he never quite saw why it was necessary to hide it in the first place. 

Alex is agender, and they’re absolutely gorgeous. They’d been worried for a time that their lack of gender would prevent them finding someone, but Theo had fallen for them ridiculously quickly. Harry is so glad for them both, even if Theo receives many unwanted questions and comments about his sexuality because of it. People always ask if he’s actually _pansexual_ , and then he has to explain that bisexuality isn’t automatically exclusive of nonbinary people; even though in some cases it is. It must be exhausting for him, but by the happy smile on his face as he leans in to kiss Alex, he wouldn’t change it for the world. 

The last six years have been hard, tormenting, almost. Draco had joined Hermione’s harping for Harry to see someone, and Harry had eventually given in. He’d been incredibly nervous when he stepped into his therapist’s office that first time, but he hasn’t ever been more grateful for anything in his life. Thanks to Hermione and Draco’s persistence, Harry is doing so much better. He doesn’t break down anywhere near as often, and he’s able to walk through an unfamiliar forest without his heart pounding out of his chest. It had taken years, and while he can’t prevent spiralling all the time, he now has strategies and supportive people around him. Draco tells him every day how proud he is of him, and every day Harry kisses soundly for it. 

Draco also went to therapy for a while, moved by how much it helped Harry. His hadn’t been as successful, but he’d kept it going. He’d wanted to be able to talk about his father without feeling like a failure and breaking down, and now he can. He still chooses not to, still has difficulty, but the feeling of letting him down or being stifled by his presence is long gone. Harry is so proud of him, and he makes sure Draco knows it every morning. 

Draco taps his shin with his foot, getting Harry’s attention under the table. Harry turns to look at him, a pleased smile gracing his face. He nods at Draco, telling him he’s ready without words. Draco swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing, and stands up at the head of the table. 

“Harry and I have an announcement,” he says, voice clear and well practised. 

Their friends fall silent, all turning expectant eyes to Draco. Harry smiles at him and stands up too, joining their hands together. 

“Are you getting married again?!” Pansy asks teasingly. The joke helps dissolve some of Harry’s nerves, and he has a feeling that it was intentional; bloody Slytherin. 

Draco shakes his head. “Once was enough for me,” he says, turning adoring eyes on Harry. “No, this is something a bit bigger.”

Harry nods, turning back to look at their friends. His stomach is tight with nerves, but nothing they say can change how he feels about it. 

“We’re adopting a baby boy!” Draco announces, his jaw twitching as he tries to rein in his anxiousness.

Their friends’ silence turns from an expectant one to a stifling one, tension creeping over them as they process the information. But then they are cheering and on their feet and congratulating Draco and him. Harry heaves a sigh of relief, wrapping Draco in a hug as his smile wobbles. 

“Do you have a name picked out?” Alex asks, approaching them from the other end of the table. 

Harry nods over Draco’s shoulder, who’s pressing his face into Harry’s neck to hide his emotional state. His stomach flutters again, nervous that he’s revealing the name and therefore setting it in stone, but they’ll all find out eventually anyway. He says it, nice and loud so that it rings out around the table. 

“Scorpius James Potter-Malfoy.”

*~*~*~

_Fin_

[bellasprezzaturaa](https://bellasprezzaturaa.tumblr.com/)

[diamondpride](https://diamondpride.tumblr.com/)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas/Happy Holidays! 
> 
> This has been a roller coaster of a ride, but one that I have absolutely adored. I’ve loved writing this fic and sharing it with you guys, and I’m so glad you all like it too! Thank you for following along and commenting as I upload (for those of you that do), and otherwise, thank you for reading it! I hope you have a lovely Christmas, even if it is spent inside. For those of you who don’t celebrate, I hope you have a nice couple of weeks to relax. Love you all 💜
> 
> Side note: Check out diamondpride and bellasprezzaturaa on tumblr, these guys really helped me get this fic organised and neat! Links are above, because I can’t figure ao3 out on my phone!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Kudos and Comments are lovely to receive and read <3


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